Ripples
by french-charlotte
Summary: AU. Set during AC:3. Connor was captured during his first meeting with Charles and the Templars when he was four years old, setting off a chain reaction that changed his life. Father/Son.
1. Chapter 1

**Break out the champagne and confetti; this story marks my inaugural venture in to the AC universe! Anywho, this story is set in the AC:3 timeline, though it is most definitely an AU. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

"I could snap your neck, you know. A little more pressure and POP! The sad little flame of your life extinguished."

Releasing a strangled cough, the vice grips on his delicate wind pipe restricting his precious air supply, Ratonhnhaké:ton fruitlessly clawed at the thick wrists near his throat. It was useless. At the tender age of four years old, he couldn't muster the strength to over power the grown Colonialist even if he wasn't slammed against the trunk of the tree. With his eyes closed, he wasn't sure where the other three Englishmen were - the men that first plucked him from his hiding spot in his game with his friends - though he assumed they were close by.

"You are a nothing. A speck of dust. You and all your ilk. Living in the dirt like animals, oblivious to the true ways of the world."

His assailant's voice was dangerously low, reminding Ratonhnhaké:ton of an alpha wolf defending his pack's den. But unlike the natural and melodic sound of a wolf's growl, the Colonialist's voice stood in contrast to the normally serene forest. A place of densely packed foliage and looming trees that was his playground with his friends had somehow transformed to the ominous darkness.

"The wiser among you recognize the shape of the future. They throw themselves at our feet and beg mercy."

"Charles..." Sounded an accented voice, the unspoken warning in the tone.

But the assailant - Charles - didn't seem to take heed. Instead he squeezed the delicate neck beneath his grasp, making the withering child cough and sputter more. "But not you, it seems. No... You cling desperately to your ways. Too ignorant to know your folly. But I am not unkind."

Just as a shroud of darkness threatened to overcome him, Ratonhnhaké:ton fell to the leafy ground, the hand around his neck suddenly gone. His robbed lungs hungrily begged for more air than his abused throat could gather, forcing him into a mixture of gasps and coughs. Despite the bruises on his neck and throbbing pain, the child relished in the burning anger that blossomed and grew in his chest. Just as he moved to turn his head up and demand to know his assailant's name - in hope that one day he would get his bitter sweet revenge on the man - a pair of rough hands grabbed him around his small arms and hauled him roughly to his feet.

Glancing up reluctantly, Ratonhnhaké:ton met Charles' steel, cold glare. The snide smirk on his face made a barrage of goosebumps rise on the child's arms. "If the boy won't reason with us, we may as well use him to our advantage."

One of the Colonialist, a tall, stately man with hardset chocolate eyes and a matching beard and goatee, swallowed uneasily. "Charles... he is but a child. Let him be."

"A child to that savage village, William," Charles replied testily. His grip on the boy tightening ruthlessly, he dragged him closer towards the horses that were tied to a nearby tree, their impatient shifts rustling the leaves. "If he won't tell us where his village is, then we'll use him as leverage to make them come to us."

"Let me go!" Ratonhnhaké:ton called out, twisting and turning in the calloused grips. But his efforts were fruitless, the digits pressed harder into his skin, sure to leave a bruise in their wake. He had no choice but to be dragged along.

The man - William - stood in their paths to the horses, causing Charles to come to a sudden halt with the boy. "And you presume kidnapping one of their own will tide well in our favor, Charles? Have you gone mad?"

"I've tire of trying to deal with these people civilly. They refuse to accept our negotiations. If they choose to act like the savages they are, then so be it! I will treat them as such!"

"By holding a child ransom? All the work that I've done in talks with the Iroquois will be wasted!"

Charles released a disdainful chuckle. "The same talks that were suppose to get the purchase of the land?"

"And you think forcing their hand with this ploy will work? Once word spreads to the surrounding tribes, our relations with the Iroquois will be soiled beyond repair."

The boy began to thrash, though Charles hastily subdued his attempts with pulling him closer to him. "He must be worth something to the Elders, or someone in that village. If push comes to shove, we simply dispose of the boy and cover our tracks."

"You mean put the blame on someone else."

"Since when did you grow a knack for morality and fairness?" Charles shot back.

"Since I don't want to be on the barrel end of Kenway's pistol when he catches wind of this. You know how he feels about us being in these lands."

Charles paused in brief thought, his mind briskly chewing on his counterpart's words. William was right in that respect; Haytham would surely be displeased with the capture and ransoming of a Native child. For one reason or another, their leader - Grand Master of their Order - had a bizarre fondness of the Kanatahséton, his incessant orders to remain off their lands a constant annoyance for Charles.

But he was done be placid and diplomatic with the savages. They had their time; their window of opportunity for civil negotiations was graciously kept open for the past four years. And yet the stubborn fools refused to relent. "Kenway is not to hear of this, am I understood?"

One of the other men, this one dressed in regal English attire and wore a drawn back gray wig, lifted an unimpressed brow. "Keeping a secret from Kenway is almost as feasible as talking sense into these savages."

"Only the four of us know of this plan, Church," Charles replied through gritted teeth. "I pray that if he does learn of it, we will truly know the strength of our loyalty to one another... as well as the weakness."

A heavy, profound silence fell over the group of men, the only interruption coming from the boy that still pulled at the ironclad grips on him. But with the deafening silence came a mix of understanding and the development of an unspoken truce.

"Fine," William replied, a slight twinge of reluctance lingering in his voice that made Charles frown with doubt. Quickly pulling a dagger from his belt, he wordlessly and without warning grabbed the boy's arm, dragging the sharp edge of the blade across the sun-kissed skin.

Ratonhnhaké:ton gave a yelp of surprise and pain, his short limbs thrashing about even more fervently than before. But with the added hands from William, his efforts were for naught. The Colonialist roughly squeezed the fresh wound, the once clean cut spilt over with crimson liquid that generously poured out.

Charles lifted a brow. "And you accuse _me_ of tainting the relations?"

"If you plan to stage a ransom of sorts, you best do it right," William replied tensely. Turning the bloodied arm sideways, the boy's wide, tear-filled eyes watching in fear, the Colonialist allowed the blood to drip to the plants below. "We'll need to leave a trail - some evidence that he's been taken."

"Will that not lead them directly to us?"

"I have no doubt that they'll track us through the forest, but by that point, we'll be long gone. I assume we're bringing him to Boston?"

"To be frank, I haven't thought that far ahead, but yes, I suppose Boston is the logical choice. Though we'd have a more trying time keeping a Mohawk child concealed from Kenway."

"One of my associates on the outskirts of the city could hold him," Benjamin Church replied. "He has a few unused slave quarters that would work out fine."

William nodded, watching the Native boy's blood saturate the foliage below, the once vibrant green color washed away with the crimson liquid. "They'll lose our tracks once we get closer to Boston, but they'll know he was taken and likely alive."

"Then let's be rid of this place," Charles said. Hastily grabbing his pistol from his belt holster, he spared the child a quick look over, relishing the sudden change of bravado. The once testy and brave boy was reduced to fearful tears, the trails of glistening moisture on his cheeks a stark contrast to his brazen attitude only moments before. An offspring to the fierce Natives he may be, but he was still just a lowly child.

Feeling the stare, the child looked up, his scared gaze meeting Charles' heated one.

Along with the evident fear and alarm, the boy's orbs still swirled with unreserved anger and hatred, the emotions making Charles frown deeply. But beyond the hatred and fear, the Englishman couldn't seem to shake off the peculiar familiarity from the child; as though he'd been on the receiving end of the rageful glare one to many times before.

Not that it mattered - the boy was nothing more than a bargaining chip; a pawn to finally turn the tables in their favor.

Lifting the pistol, Charles whipped it across the back of Ratonhnhaké:ton's head, using perhaps more force than called for. As expected the boy suddenly went limp as unconsciousness overtook him.

* * *

Burning the midnight oil. The phrase had never held so much truth to it

Glancing up from the letters speaking of recent activity that suggested the survival of an Assassin, Haytham glared at the dying flame in the glass lamp that rested on his desk. The grease that kept the flame alive was already dwindling, the wick nearly depleted. When the Grand Master questioned the validity of the late hour on his pocket watch, he couldn't negate the evidence of his late night work; the damned oil lamp never could lie about that. If he intended on pouring himself over more of the reports from his associates and contacts he'd need to remedy his dying source of light, lest he wanted to work in the darkness.

Or he could finally succumb to the annoying prodding of fatigue that refused to go away.

Releasing an irked sigh, Haytham leaned back in his chair. If the reports were right and there was a lone Assassin stirring up trouble amongst their ranks, he'd surely have his work cut out for him. The man, who supposedly went by the name of Derek Walkins, was an Englishman who apparently had already booked passage to return to London in a week's time. That only offered a small opportunity to track down the Assassin... and an even smaller allowance for mistakes. Running a hand over his tired features, his digits scratched by the stubble on his face, Haytham shook his head dejectedly. He'd have to send word to the Templar Order in London; but even that letter would arrive a mere few days before Walkins would.

If everything panned out the way he planned, Walkins wouldn't even be alive the day his boat would sail.

A sudden knock on his front door interrupting his thoughts, Haytham furrowed his brows; who would be hailing him at this hour? He'd already debriefed with Charles, William, Hickey, and Benjamin regarding their failed attempts at negotiating with the Natives for purchase of the lands around the precursor site - a failure he was well prepared for. After four years of failing to convince the prideful tribe to sell their land, he wasn't holding his breath anymore for their relent.

Standing up from his desk, Haytham approached his window and glanced down at the front stoop. From his position on the second floor of his dwelling, he was only able to see a cloaked figure standing silently before his closed front door. Significantly shorter than any enemy or ally he'd come across, he briskly racked his brain for a possibility, his efforts coming back empty handed. Wonderful... an unchecked and unaccounted for visitor... just what he needed with the Assassin mess.

Grabbing the oil lamp from the desk in one hand, he pulled his pistol out with his other and made his way out of his study. Emerging into a long, narrow and darkened corridor he spared a few glances at the closed doors that lined the hall; doors that led to two unused bedrooms and his master bedroom at the end of the hall. The floor was covered in dark, mahogany hardwood, though he was mindful to walk in the ornate long rug that ran down the center of the hall, using the plush shag to absorb his boot steps. Walking down the tall stairs, his eyes fastened on the side windows next to the front door, he strained to see a glimpse of his visitor; but it was useless, the person not visible from his angle.

Pausing before the door, he placed the oil lamp on a small chestnut table against the wall. If the visitor did prove to be problematic, he'd need his hands clear and ready for combat. Unlatching the locks on the thick door, Haytham gingerly turned the knob and slowly pulled it back, the pistol prepared to fire and his hidden blade ready to be unleashed.

But the moment his gaze met his visitor's darkened face, he immediately shoved the pistol back into its holding place, silently fearful to accidently trigger the fatal weapon. "Ziio! What-what a pleasant-"

"I must speak with you," the Native woman interrupted tensely. Though the tan leather hide that made up her cloak concealed much of her face, Haytham still caught her shining eyes... eyes that caught and captivated his attention. She released an impatient sigh, apparently taking notice to his awe-struck demeanor. "It is important, Haytham."

"Hm? Oh yes, of course. Come in."

Pushing the door open, he invited her into the foyer of his residence, which she hastily entered. Quite possibly the only woman who managed to tether his heart was finally back before his eyes, and after their parting five years ago, he didn't expect to gaze into her mesmerizing eyes again. Their relationship had seemed so perfect then, when they first met; love had washed over him at the most unexpected time and place. And he assumed that she shared similar feelings for him. But everything came crashing down when she expressed her disinterest in his devotion to his precious Order, his time being spent with his 'brothers' becoming increasingly noticeable.

Caught up in his anger and frustration, he so stupidly let her walk away and out of his life.

"Come. Sit down," he directed, leading her through the foyer into the connected parlor room. Similar to the rest of the immaculate estate, an flawless rug with oriental markings rested in the middle of the room, while three sofas were boxed in around a coffee table in the center. Though Haytham enjoyed taking his tea in the quaint room, the sincere lack of use was seen in the pristine fabrics on the sofas; living as a bachelor had its finer points. Though he was alone, he relished in the finer luxuries that his wealth could afford. A large mirror hung on one of the floral wallpapered walls, while exquisite and select oil paintings decorated the other walls. A hearth constructed of polished stone made up the fireplace, though no warming fire burned in it's mouth.

Despite the welcoming ambiance of the parlor and the gracious sofas available, neither one of them sat.

"Something has happened," Ziio stated somberly as she slowly lowered her hood, revealing her face. Though she was every bit the breathtaking beauty as before, her features looked significantly more haggard and tired, dark angry circles beneath her eyes giving away her sincere lack of sleep. Her long hair was braided, though lacked the normal feathers that Haytham had come to expect. "I need your... I need your help."

Haytham blinked. If she didn't make the situation seem so ominous he would've said a witty comment. "You look exhausted, Ziio. What's wrong? Perhaps you should sit down."

"No!" She recoiled from his hand that attempted to touch hers in hopes of convincing her. Still every bit the stubborn and prideful woman, she stood obstinately still. "I will not rest until I find him!"

"Find who? Tell me what's happening."

"My... my son has been stolen... captured, kidnapped, whatever it is you English call it. He went missing two days ago in the woods where he plays."

A million questions began circulating in Haytham's head, each one fighting for dominance to make out it his mouth. A man of realism and logic, however, he gave precedence to his head over his heart, allowing the more mindful questions to spurt out first. His throughs of passion could wait. Maybe it was an inkling of betrayal and jealousy that tugged at his heart, that Ziio had found another lover after him, bearing this new man a child, while he still struggled in silence at mending a broken heart. "How do you know he's been kidnapped? You of all people should know the danger that calls those forests home."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton knows how to escape a bear's clutch but the Colonialist he is weak against," the woman replied. "We found his blood in the forests and followed the trail. There were horses."

"And where did this trail bring you? I assume you didn't find the boy, considering you're standing before me."

"It brought me to Boston," she shot back, disdain and anger laced in her harsh words, then turned her gaze downcast in an attempt to hide the pain in her eyes. "Once in the city, I could not track him any longer. The trail was covered with all of the activity. Asking around was useless - no one has seen a Native child."

Haytham sighed and ran a hand over the nape of his neck. He was suppose to be tracking an Assassin, not a child. "Ziio, what are you asking of me?"

The woman snapped her eyes up, uncaring about the naked emotion that danced in her gaze, that showed her incredible vulnerability; the gaze that gnawed at his heart. "Help me find him. Please, Haytham, you know this city better than any in my village."

"Ziio..."

"_Please_," she repeated more fervently. "The Elders have forbid the others to search deeper in this city. They fear the Colonialists. I do not. But I need your help. You have more contacts than I do."

"I don't know if I can... Ziio, I am very busy right now. I could refer the matter to the consulate. They may open a full- "

"No! I want _you_ to search! I do not trust the consulate or your lying justice system. I trust _you_!"

Again, the aged pain in his heart tugged ruthlessly, his emotions screaming at him to throw himself head first for the woman's needs. But the Order could not be ignored... his obligation to his duties could not be ignored. He had but a week's time to find and kill a rogue Assassin; time was not a luxury he could afford. "I give you my word I will contact someone I trust to investigate your son's capture." Turning around from the woman, no longer able to be on the receiving end of her beseeching and pleading stare, he instead forced himself to feign interest in the closest painting near him. The frame was a polished gold, though the worn edges showed need for maintenance. He made a mental note to ask his head servant, Joyce, to tend to the paintings; he assumed the others were in a similar disarray.

"Our."

Haytham blinked and glanced over his shoulder. "Hm?"

If Ziio looked as lost and defeated as she felt, she longed to shrink away from the stately, proud man before her. But she couldn't... Ratonhnhaké:ton needed her. Releasing a shaky breath, she leaned against one of the sofa's in fear that her emotional and physical fatigue would finally take its toll on her. This was her final plan, her last resort. "Our. You said my son... but that is not true. He is _our_ son."

The room felt tense, the area seeming as though there was no air left. Though after a few seconds, Haytham realized that it only felt that way because he'd stopped breathing it. A son. No, that wasn't possible; she wasn't with a child when she stormed out that wretched day. "How old is he?" he immediately asked, turning back to the woman.

"He has seen four winters."

Fours year old. That would mean... "You were carrying a child when you left."

It wasn't a question but a statement; and judging by the coldness in his stare, Ziio assumed he wasn't pleased with the information. "Yes, I was. I was early in my pregnancy, but I knew of his existence."

"And you left anyways?" Haytham countered, a crisp edge leaking from his voice as he took a step closer to her. "You are sure that I sired him?"

Ziio could take Haytham's angry stare but his accusation felt like a slap to her face. "You are the only man I have been with," she replied heatedly, then paused for a moment. "He... he looks like you. You will not question my faithfulness once you see him."

"Not only did you leave me without so much an explanation, but you also robbed me of raising my own son. And now you expect me to abandon my work because you simply can't watch a child?"

The woman chuckled sardonically. "Your precious Order. I had almost forgotten about it. Perhaps if you were not so distracted by your work you have seen _why_ I left!" He opened his mouth to undoubtedly voice his opposition on the matter, but she didn't allow him to. Quickly closing the gap between them, she pointed a finger at him. "And do not lecture me on raising a child when you were nowhere to be seen."

It was Haytham's turn to laugh darkly. "Oh, well that's fresh. Penalize me for not helping raise him when I wasn't even given the chance!"

"You are more full of yourself than I thought if you think you could have done better."

"Well, he wouldn't have gotten kidnapped, that's for sure. Who let's a four year old gallivant about the forest alone?!"

"The Elders were right! I was stupid and blinded by desperation to think that you would even consider helping me!" Spinning around angrily, she made her way through the parlor, towards the front door.

The disheartening scene was not novel for Haytham; no, he'd been in the situation before, five years ago when she left him that afternoon. Driven by his obstinate pride, he sat and watched her leave, his last glance of her only her back. Though at the time his heart was pleading with him to run to her, call out to her, beg her to stay, his bloody pride had won out. And oh the damage that pride had caused... he lost the love that won his heart and never met the son that he fathered.

A man of pride he may be, but he was not foolish. And he rarely made the same mistake twice.

"Ziio. Wait."

Her feet turning to lead, something inside of her made her stop in her trek, made her anger dissipate long enough to listen to reason. She heard rustling and footsteps behind her for a split second before Haytham appeared in front of her, standing between herself and the front door. "I am done talking to you."

"Then for once, just listen," he replied softly, the anger from only moments before gone. "This is... rather big news for me. I never thought I'd see you again, least alone hear that I have a son. I just wished that you would have told me sooner... that such a situation did not have to occur for me to learn of his existence."

She shook her head tiredly. "And if I had told you, what would you have done?"

He paused. What _would_ he have done? "Been there for you both. Raised him as my son. Ziio, you kept my child from me."

"Please, I have been through much in the past few days... please do not make yourself a victim. Your work has and always will be your child."

"I will find him," Haytham blurted out, a strong wave of undying strength in his words that even caught the woman's attention. "Give me a few days... but I promise you that if he still breaths, I will find him."

Ziio ran her gaze over the Englishman's driven eyes and beautifully chiseled face; features that her young son seemed to inherit from his father. Though she'd never admit it, she found solace and security in his presence, his physical and mental strength unending. Such was the reason she didn't hesitate in making her way to his estate when she lost the trail of her captured son. "Fine," she replied in a taunt voice, her eyes quickly breaking from his. "I will return to the village to wait... just in case he does find his way back to us on his own."

"What's his name?"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton."

Haytham blinked. "You couldn't give him a name easily spoken by all?"

The corner's of the woman's mouth slowly turned into a small grin. "It is a fitting name among my people."

"Don't forget that he's still English."

Ziio chose to ignore his statement; a pointed fact that she'd been ignoring for four years. "You pronounce it Ra-doon-ha-gay-doon," she said slowly. Considering the blank look in the man's face, she doubted he'd understand it. "Show him the pendant that you called an artifact so many years ago. He will recognize it from the markings around our village. That will gain his trust." She paused for a brief moment, contemplating how much information she wished to disclose. "You may also give him your name. He knows the name of his father, and that he is English."

At this, Haytham lifted a brow. "What else does he know of me?"

"Not much," she snapped back, recognizing the hint of prying interest in her past lover's tone. "If his skin was not so much lighter than the rest of the children, I would not have even told him that. But he deserved an explanation." She stopped there, not quite comfortable enough to disclose that the child had pressed for more information about his father on more occasions than she cared to admit.

"Where am I bring him after I find him?"

"To the village. Do you remember where it is?"

"I recall where the precursor site was. Does that suffice?"

She hesitated for a moment. It was no secret that she shuddered at the thought of allowing the Colonialist near the sacred grounds that her people watched over for centuries, at least without her accompanying him. But she highly doubted he would capitalize on bringing harm to the site if he was following through with his promise to deliver their child. "Yes, I suppose that is fine. Just... be careful. Ratonhnhaké:ton will be hesitant to go near the sacred grounds. I've forbid him to play near them. You may have to convince him."

"Will he not show me where the village is?"

Ziio hardly noticed a small smile spread on her strong front as memories of her child surfaced to her mind. "He has inherited more than your looks, but also your stubbornness. Do not take offense if he will not tell you where the village is."

"I'll do what I can," Haytham replied, his mind going through his list of contacts for a good lead. Strangely he couldn't quite come up with a decent contact that would know where to find a kidnapped Native child. Walking Ziio to the door, he politely pulled it open and watched her slide out into the night, her hood already drawn up. "Do you know of anyone that wishes to harm the boy?"

"He has never left the Valley."

"Does anyone know of his relation with me? That I fathered him?"

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Do you think someone is trying to get to you through him?"

Haytham's mind immediately thought of the unaccounted Assassin; was the timing of the Assassin's uncovering and his son's capture purely coincidental, or was there a larger plan at play? "Until I get a more definite lead, I'm not ruling anything out. Now who else knows of our relationship?"

She shook her head. "Not many. Only the Elders but they would not tell others that would bring harm to Ratonhnhaké:ton."

He wasn't one to let any rock go unturned, especially where an Assassin was concerned. Extremely resources and conniving, the sworn enemies of the Templars, the Assassins Order, could surely be responsible for his son's disappearance. The thought alone of one those revolting individual's bringing harm to his offspring - despite the fact that he'd never met the child - carried a whole new hatred for the their Order.

"Haytham, should I be worried?" Ziio asked, her shielded eyes full of concern and unbridled trust; both emotions making the man savor his newfound affinity with the woman. Perhaps their life together was being given a second chance.

Laying a heavy hand on the short woman's shoulder, Haytham shook his head. "I promise you... I will find him."


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow - that's all I can really say for the incredible overwhelmingly positive responses for this story thus far. I love hearing from you - the readers - and getting your feedback; what you loved, hated, cried over, punched your monitor, etc. This story is definitely starting to look rather long, and I've had to make some adjustments in future chapters for the better. **

**I typically like to fall into an updating schedule but I'm not sure when you can expect the third chapter. My goal is within a week! **

**As always, I own nothing except my original characters. Happy reading!**

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**Chapter 2 **

The morning dew always had a way to dust the slumbering city of Boston in the wee hours of the morning, the miniscule drops of moisture glistening beneath the birth of the rising sun. But the smallest window of serenity for the budding colonial town was incredibly short-lived; it'd be granted only a sparingly handful of hours before the scores of inhabitants emerged from their homes, eager to make haste in the early spring morning. The placid, tranquil atmosphere, as well as the dew, would succumb to the greater forces of the Bostonites, their fast moving legs already in high speed to complete the first duty on their ever growing list.

But thus was the lifestyle of a colonialist. Capture and take advantage of the daylight, and gain whatever rest you could when the sun dipped below the horizon. Despite the colonialization of the once primitive wilderness having begun decades ago, the colonialists were still mindful to their desolate, isolated civilizations; the supposed funding from the crown was leagues away. But despite the shoddy promise of support and resources from the mainland of England, the colonialists didn't take long to see the profound transparency of the supposed support. The roaring seas and expansive oceans was more than a strict barrier of distance; it also served as a means for justifying the over taxing of the remote colonialists and the enforcement of draconic laws that failed to support the underlying mantra of the fictitious crown.

Relations were strained. The people of Boston and the colonies were no longer resting silently. The unjustified murders and appalling wrongs to their struggling peoples couldn't be ignored anymore, the corrupted crown's attempts to smooth over the frets all but drowned out by the colonialists burning virtues. The flame had been lit, and it would only be a matter of time before it reached the powder keg.

Joining the bustling throngs of men and women in the congested streets of Boston, Haytham shoved such thoughts into the recesses of his mind, instead allowing the more pressing matters consume him. As promised to Ziio only hours ago, he would find his captured son; if the boy was even still alive. As Ziio had stated, the boy's trail had long turned cold, either from the elapsed time or his kidnapper's skill at covering their tracks. Side stepping a band of Red Coats, mindful not to draw attention to himself, Haytham grudgingly assumed the latter. The Native woman was no stranger to tracking; quite contrary, her and her people were infused with a knack for tracking he could only dream of possessing. Whoever plucked his child from his Native kin were no amateurs.

And it was that notion alone that would assist in his searching. The likes of a messy, aspiring kidnapper made the list of potential men long and, quite frankly, far too time consuming for Haytham's taste. He still had a free roaming Assassin to find and eliminate in less than a weeks time.

He needed to find the child rather quickly.

Turning towards a tavern nestled across from the harbor, undoubtedly preying on sealogged sailors desperate for the passions of a woman and the finer aspects of booze, Haytham dismayingly eyed the ragged looking prostitutes lingering outside the door. The day had just begun and the call girls were already on their prowl for customers - a revolting trade. Unfortunately, as much as Haytham despised the filth that frequented the tavern at such an early hour, his best lead for gathering insight as to his son's disappearance would likely come from the lowly place.

And even more unfortunate, such a person would come from the his elite, secretive brotherhood.

Pushing the heavy tavern door open, Haytham nearly gagged at the wave of nauseating smells that slammed into him; a sickening mixture of cheap booze, stagnant sweat, and other detestable human fluids. The bay windows in the front of the tavern, though covered with a waxy coat of filth, basked the open room with the morning rays coming up over the harbor, the added heat from the sunlight serving to increase the stench all the more. Breathing through his mouth, Haytham darted his eyes about the tavern. Various circular tables and benches constructed of warped and splintered wood littered the area, while an equally shoddily crafted bar - the crown jewel of the tavern - was nestled on a long wall. A bored yet impressively toned bartender stood dutifully behind the bar, his beady black eyes scrutinizing Haytham's stately clothing, either hoping for a decent paying patron or expecting some means of trouble. But Haytham paid him no heed, instead took inventory of the rest of the vile establishment. On the opposite end of the room from the windows was a warped set of wooden stairs leading up to the second floor, where Haytham presumed the more nocturnal activities were performed for an added cost.

Bringing his inspecting gaze around again, he narrowed his stare on a younger man silently sitting at a table alone, his head turned down into the full beer stout resting in front of him. Free of a tricorn hat, Haytham immediately recognized his long face, hardset eyes, and smirk that seemed to be permanently etched on his cross face. Thomas Hickey. Born to poor Irish parents, he was one of the few in the Order that didn't pine for the finer luxuries of life, despite his blatant hunger for wealth. Or perhaps he simply lacked the experience of how to flaunt his acquired wealth, no matter how unjustly, from his humbled, impoverish raising.

Reaching the table, Haytham dropped himself onto the bench opposite of Hickey, who jumped with a start, his hand already on his pistol. But one look at his leader, his hand slowly inched away from the weapon, though not completely dropping his guard; an action that didn't go unnoticed by Haytham. Lifting a brow, the Grand Master eyed the foul amber-hued beer. "I shall never fathom your palate for the likes of this drink."

Hickey shrugged. "Old habit die 'ard, I s'pose." He took a swig out of the stout as though for evidence. "Fancy seeing you 'ere, boss."

"Yes, well, I assure you it's not to become a regular occurrence," Haytham firmly replied. Glancing around himself, he mentally took stock to the few other drunken patrons, their glazed over, half lidded eyes confirming their intoxicated states. "I need information about a capture."

Assuming the conversation would take some time, Hickey signaled the bartender for another round, much to the frowning, rejecting face of his leader. "A capture, eh? What kind 'av capture we talkin' about?"

"A Native child - a boy - was taken from his home and brought here to Boston." Haytham suddenly paused, his calculating eyes immediately seeing the other man's jaw tighten just slightly, his calloused hands wrapping around the glass stout with noticeable pressure. "You seem to have spies tucked away in every nook and cranny for the sort, I presumed you'd have some kind of information."

Hickey glanced down at the drink, his mouth gone dry though he found no interest in drinking it. "An Indian boy, eh? Gots to say, I see lots 'av slaves come an' go, boss."

"He's a boy no older than half a decade, Hickey. Even amongst the filth you rely on as associates, he would rather stand out on the auction platforms."

"These are 'ard times, boss," Hickey countered with a snide smirk, though the forced gesture struggled to make it up to his troubled eyes. "Slavers ain't got no morals these days."

Haytham sighed heavily. "Then you have seen him."

"Ain't said that."

"My patience with you is limited, Hickey," the Grand Master growled lowly. Breaking for a moment as the bartender dropped two more stouts of beer on the sticky table top, Haytham nodded his head in acknowledgement and waited for a few moments before the tavern worker sauntered away, no doubt interested in catching something of their intriguing conversation. "Your network runs deep, especially with this industry. Or has your esteemed reputation faltered in such a respect?"

The other man's eyes hardened, his jaw going taunt. "What's a Native boy gots any interest with you? Fancy spotting a slave of 'er own?"

"Don't insult me so," Haytham spat back. "My interest is none of your concern, and you'd do well to still your tongue from broaching on the subject." The other man uneasily broke eye contact, a shameful crimson flush edging on his cheeks. "Now, have you what I seek?"

Hickey paused for a long moment, somehow finding incredible interest in the second mug of the flat malt drink, his morning mood no longer thirsting for the satisfying buzz of the strong beverage. He easily recalled that day in the forest with his brethren, their searching for the village Elders ending without success only to find a lone Native child playing blissfully in his exotic playground. As usual, William and Charles took charge over the peculiar situation, their habitual bickering on the subject of the Indians William possessed a strange fondness for eventually taking precedence. Charles' decision, and William's eventual agreeing, to take the boy was met with no opposition; Church relented like the spineless being he is, and Hickey... The man swallowed uneasily at the memory of that dismal day, of the boy's frantic eyes and fearful tears that trailed down his cheeks. And yet, as much as he loathed the idea of stealing the boy for leverage against the tribe, he was smart to keep his mouth tightly clamped; his callous reputation and integrity would surely be at stake should he have acted on his true feelings. After the boy was whisked away for safe keeping, Hickey shoved any thoughts of the child from his mind.

He never thought Haytham would question it.

"Tell me, Hickey," the Grand Master began slowly, his voice low. "Who is it you are trying to protect?"

"It ain't like that, boss," Hickey tried feebly. His normally shielded gaze looked torn, his emotions pulling his intent in different directions. The aged flashbacks from his childhood in Ireland surfaced to his mind, a harsh kaleidoscope of memories of his elder sisters turning to forced servitude after his father succumbed to the bottom of a bottle. The incredible pain they endured at their tender age and the disgusting satisfaction their masters took in it would never be forgotten. "Look, alls I know is what I heard from a wee bird. An Indian lad, a kid, was brought to some prop'rty on the edge 'av Boston. Dunno if he's destined for the auction block or what."

Haytham looked skeptically at his subordinate for a moment. "What property? Show me where it is."

"I dunno where its at. Just caught wind about it a few days ago. It might not even be the lad you're looking for."

"Is that all the information you know then? Why can't you simply ask this acquaintance of yours to kindly show you. Or better yet, have me his name and I shall seek out this spy."

Hickey shook his head, though careful to conceal the sounding alarms in his mind. "And bloody well ruin what relations I have with him? One look at the likes of you 'an I'll be lucky to get an ounce 'av information again."

As much as he hated to admit it, Haytham knew Hickey's word held some sort of truth to them; there was a reason the Irishman was responsible for maintaining the relations with the otherwise lowly spy networks. Raw and unrefined, Hickey was able to blend with their ranks. But Haytham - he'd stick out incredibly so. And as much as he wanted to assist Ziio in find their son, he wasn't willing to jeopardize the Order's infiltrating sleuth networks.

"Fine," the Grand Master grudgingly replied, already pushing himself up from the shoddy bench, his drink continued to be untouched. "I suppose I very well have a lead on this enough with the small information you did give me. You would do best to forget we had this conversation, understood?"

"What conversation, boss?"

Already moving towards the tavern door, Haytham didn't press the truth with the other man, despite his poor ability to conceal that he harbored more knowledge. Time was of the essence if he was to successfully track his son and the Assassin, and he hadn't the time nor energy to spare on Hickey. At some point during the next few days he'd have to meet with Charles to discuss the Assassin, should he run into difficulties in tracking him.

At least he had some means of a lead for finding his son, even if the information was second hand and questionable in validity.

* * *

The grudging hours turned into tiring days for Ratonhnhaké:ton. After he was knocked unconscious by the colonialists, he awoke to find himself laying alone in what looked to have once been a horse stall. But the wooden planked walls were warped so severely that he was able to peek through the sides, though there wasn't much else to see in the desolate, abandoned barn. The shackle on his small arm hardly gave him more than a few feet to move around, the iron chain stubbornly keeping him close to the wall. Even if he was able to rid himself of the painful shackle, the barred and likely locked stall door still separated him from the rest of the barn.

Sitting with his back propped up against the wall, Ratonhnhaké:ton hugged his knees to his chest, despite the suffocating heat that weighed heavily in the air. It didn't take him long to learn that the small pail of water filled in the mornings was all he was granted for the entirety of the day; his first day in his prison, he'd made the erroneous mistake of painstakingly drinking it all before even noon, and then was forced to withstand the incredible heat without the luxuries of water. Though it was stale and harbored a wretched taste, his parched throat didn't care for the dismal flavor.

He missed his village and his mother's voice. He missed the longhouses and playing with his friend and cousins in the trees. He missed the animals, the sounds of the forest and stories from the Elders at night. His first day in the barn he'd wept shamefully, calling out for help until his voice went raw and exhaustion finally took its toll on him. No one came. The only person he'd seen since his capture was a middle-aged colonialist who would exchange his empty pail of water for a full one and toss a loaf of stale bread into the cell. But the man was swift with his movements and mute in his exchanges, completing what he had to and only sparing Ratonhnhaké:ton a single, quick look over. The man looked unmoved to his pleas, acting as though he didn't hear them, and it was on the third day he'd finally stopped his attempts at trying to sway the man to his cause.

A bitter pill to swallow, but he knew he was on his own, damned in his mysterious fate.

The recognizable crash of the barn door opening and closing jolting him from his musings, Ratonhnhaké:ton scrambled to the wall and leaned in to get a better glimpse between the planks of wood. He'd already seen his pseudo caretaker that earlier that morning, and his pail of water was only halfway empty.

His eyes landing on a familiar man, Ratonhnhaké:ton attempted to swallow thickly, though his dry throat restricted the action. Dressed far too regal and gallant for the likes of a run down barn, the Englishman who assaulted and captured him days ago stalked down the rows of stalls, his steps full of confidence and surety. Shortly behind the Englishman was his caretaker, his steps significantly less bold and his eyes downcast. Quickly pushing himself back from the wall as the men quickly came around to his cell, the Native hastily wiped his brow of the torrential sweat and squared his shoulders, hoping to look like the fierce warriors from his tribe.

"Ah, and here we are," Charles said as he stopped in front of the barred cell door to the stall, his ringed fingers wrapping around the bars. The boy openly glared back, detesting the man's clean shaven face and smart clothing. "And how fairs the young Indian?"

"Let me go!" Ratonhnhaké:ton exclaimed, pulling at the iron shackle and chain in aggravation.

The Templar chuckled darkly. "I see that fighting spirit is as strong as ever! And here I thought some time alone, in a place where you savages dwell would do you some good. Let you learn your place amongst the filth."

The boy didn't look moved by the harsh words, his firm stare not lessening in the slightest. "What do you want with me?"

"Oh, you mean nothing to my purpose - you're entire tribe are utterly trivial to my plight. And believe me, boy, we have tried to negotiate with them for the land. But they have been folly and reckless in their decision making."

The child blinked. "You are the Englishmen trying to run us from our lands."

Charles felt a sardonic grin spread on his face. "So the Elders taint your minds with exaggerated lies at an early age. Perhaps your kind are not so different from the Crown after all." Pausing at the blank look on the boy's face, he guessed he wasn't following him. No matter. "Let me explain this to you in terms that your simple mind will comprehend - your role in this glorious scheme is to merely stay here for the time being. We'll start negotiations with your tribe in the next few days for your return. And if they play nice, give us what we want, your life will be in exchange."

The truth of the man's words penetrating his tender mind like a training arrow through an apple, Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head slowly. "You only waste your time. The Elders will not give up the lands."

Charles considered the boy for a moment, his valiant gaze as unnerving as the strange familiarity from the child. "You best pray you're wrong, for your sake." Turning around from the Native and gesturing for the servant, Derek, to follow him, the Englishman was at least content in knowing the boy was somewhat healthy. In truth, he couldn't care less for the child's wellbeing; he was nothing more than a pawn for his bidding to finally get the lands he'd been struggling to acquire for the past five years. Though he prided himself for being a man of prestige and honor, he had no qualms finessing the line of desperate acts to get what he wanted.

"Am I in Boston?"

Stopping in his tracks as he was about to walk past the cell, Charles paused, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. "That you are, boy. Is the hospitality not up to your expectations?"

But the boy either didn't take notice to the sarcasm or promptly disregarded it. Though still infused with the roaring waves of hatred for Charles, Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't conceal his pulsing fear at knowing his ultimate, untimely death was sure to come; the Elders wouldn't relent, no matter if his life was dangling for the exchange. "My father lives in Boston."

The Englishman stared at the Native child, his words striking a cord within him. "Your father? I presumed both your parents were of the savages that call the forest their home."

"My father is English. He lives in Boston," the boy explained slowly, carefully choosing his words. "When the Elders do not give you what you want, release me to my father if you will not let me go home."

"You continue to entertain me with this idea that you're in any state to toss around counter offers. Perhaps I shall keep you as my own slave," Charles said with a humorous chuckle. "But I'll patronize you - if what you say is true about the stubbornness of your tribe, you won't be living much longer. What be this supposed man's name that fathered you?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton had only muttered his father's name a handful of occasions, usually out of the ear shot of his watchful mother. When he felt safely alone in the dense foliage of the forest, he would silently whisper his name, relishing in the bizarre English name that rolled off his tongue. It was as though he hoped to never forget the name, for chance he needed it or longed to finally meet the mysterious man he only dreamed about. His mother was steadfast at describing him, offering only small snippets of information of the colonialist. Tall and broad with dark hair, and equipped with an arsenal of wit nearly as sharp as the weapons he was proficient in; that was much as his mother would reluctantly disclose. But it was enough for him to conjure his own projection of the man.

And thanks to those secretive sessions in the forest, Ratonhnhaké:ton had no qualms reciting the name. "Haytham Kenway."

The world seemed to be on a tilt for Charles, his heart plunging into his stomach while the blood drained from his face. Haytham Kenway. It all made sense. The Native woman so many years ago... he'd made smart, sarcastic comments about the hungering look in Haytham's eyes when he gazed at her, but the other Templars simply laughed at the possibility. Haytham was a man of principle and virtue, but apparently a man nonetheless, and he'd capitalized on an opportune moment at least once. Looking at the Native child in a new light, Charles' eyes immediately found the features the boy inherited from his paternal, English side. Those hardset eyes filled with determination, the confident jawline, and the unnerving stare.

But that only complicated the matters all the more. Considering the boy was born and raised in the filthy village, Charles doubted Haytham knew of the child's existence. And if he caught wind of it, would he welcome the boy with gracious, open arms of a parent? Or would he cast him aside as the bastard child he truly is? It was a risk Charles wasn't willing to take; should the Grand Master develop a paternal side, he would undoubtedly be more than irked with the less than appealing treatment he gave the boy. Not to mention the incredible distraction the child would pose to their leader in his pressing obligations and duties.

No - Haytham must not meet his son.

Turning towards the servant, Charles gathered his wits and recomposed himself. "Derek, should I not return for the boy in two days, you are to kill him." He heard an audible gasp from the child. "Keep his body in safe keeping so that I may deliver it as a reminder to the villagers. Am I understood?"

Not deviating from his stone-cold features, his emotionless eyes not changing in the slightest, the servant merely nodded his head. "As you wish, sir."

Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned. "You know my father then."

Sparing one last glance over at the child - Haytham's child - Charles sent him a cold, debasing smirk. "Aye, I do. But mark my words, boy, you will never know him, nor will you ever amount to even half the accomplishments he has. You'd do best to forget his name and anything else you think you know of him. You may have English blood coursing through your veins but your pedigree is tarnished beyond repair from your uncultivated Indian heritage. And you ought to recognize now that no matter the name of your father, you will never amount to anything more than a lowly savage."

If the man was looking for a rise out of Ratonhnhaké:ton, he would be gravely disappointed. Seeing the Englishman visibly moved to anger from the mere mention of his relation to the man who fathered him, the boy relished in his silent triumph. "The Elders were right about you English - you like to hear the sound of your own voice."

Charles frowned, leaning in closer to the bars, his voice coming out in a harsh whisper. "Not nearly as much as we like to hear the screams of your anguish."


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews! This chapter originally was cut into two separate segments but I felt a longer chapter was needed. Also, I realized I very well could not name him "Connor" - for obvious reasons - and had to come up with something more feasible. **

**Happy reading! **

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Boston would never feel like home to Charles, no matter how much he tried to make himself feel otherwise. And as he sat in the densely packed inn, his half heated meal that passed off as dinner laying forgotten before him, he somewhat hated himself for evening considering to compare the two. While the Colonists were, by all definitions and rights, English in their heritage, they would never hold a flame to the true etiquette of those in London or the prime manners from the citizens of Yorkshire. It was as though the incredible expanse of ocean they crossed stripped them of their once glorious pedigrees and family honor - that is, assuming those that made the venture even came from such a background. The elite, aristocrats rarely opted to cross over to the barren and somewhat dangerous new lands. And by all respects, why should they, Charles snidely mused as he smirked down into his metal tankard of amber ale. If his relocating wasn't fueled by his pure hatred for the crown, despite his distant relation to royalty, he wouldn't have traded the rich luxuries and exquisite class of Cheshire for the likes of the scum that surrounded him.

His appetite all but gone, Charles tossed a few coins on the table and stood up. Habitually scanning the area around him, taking in the intoxicated nightly crowd of the inn, his hand rested comfortingly on his pistol, prepared to pull it at a moment's notice. Having yet to receive word from Haytham or his other Templar brothers that the renegade Assassin was found and put to his untimely rest, he wouldn't let his guard down. It was only yesterday that he'd spoken with Haytham regarding the Assassin and learned that the revolting man was due to leave Boston very soon, his passage to London already booked. And while Charles investigated his usual haunts, poking his nose around in his associates' affairs, he assumed the Grand Master likely already beat him to the chase. Cunning and brilliant, Haytham was everything the leader of the Order ought to be.

Moving towards the door of the inn, Charles eyed the prostitutes lingering on the stairs, their gawdy makeup and low cut dresses a talltale sign for their professions. The company of a woman would possibly make the night go faster, and perhaps even add a bit of excitement to the unbridled stress of his new activity in housing a captive Indian. But even the comforts of sex sounded less than appealing, his mind weighed down with racing thoughts, and he truly didn't want the hassle of dealing with the irksome personality of a prostitute.

They were worse than ruddy sales clerks pushing a fools elixir.

Escaping the crowded confines of the inn, Charles took a deep breath of fresh air. 'Fresh' was being generous. The jam-packed city of Boston, while newer than the quaint towns in England, was still privy to the same overcrowding sensation, perhaps with even more pressing intentions to remain in the town, and therefore led to the incredible stench of humans. Those who opted to escape the bustling colonial city in exchange for the comfort of the country paid an incredible price of safety; the constables were mainly stationed within the city limits, and even those tended to turn a blind eye on the misforgivings. Of course, just like London and the metropolises of England, a deep coin purse opened up so many opportunities.

Maybe Boston and London weren't so different.

"Charlie!"

Stopping dead in his tracks, Charles wasn't sure what he detested more; the peeving nickname or the bothersome person the voice belonged to. There was only one man who had more than enough self-assurance to tempt Charles' pistol by calling him such a revolting and teasing nickname.

"Hickey," Charles replied darkly, turning around in the damp cobblestone street, and meeting the Irishman's level gaze. Though an ebony, night sky was overhead, the full moon offered enough serene light to bask the younger man's face and distinguishable cloudiness in his eyes.

"Fancy seein' you out 'ere," the Irishman replied, his words slurred and jumbled.

Charles nearly gagged at the thick aroma of cheap booze he wafted from the Templar's breath. Taking in the man's disarrayed appearance, his shirt untucked and his belt undone, he fathomed Hickey didn't have the same restraint when it came to the compelling attraction of the prostitutes. "What do you want?"

Visibly swaying, the drunk man leaned in closer to the stately colonist, either ignoring or not noticing the way he turned up his nose in disgust in his close proximity. "'sbout the Native lad."

At this, Charles' interest was piqued. But standing in the open, vulnerable street of Boston was not the place. Harshly grabbing the intoxicated Templar, he roughly dragged him into a nearby alley, shoving away a pair of unfortunate vagrant vagabonds that called the small enclosure their temporary home. His clothes worth more than their entire lives and existence, the homeless men didn't put up a fight, probably too intoxicated to remember how to throw a punch. Pleased at their paltry form of privacy, Charles gripped the Irishman's collar tighter. "Speak, damn you."

"Ease up, Charlie," Hickey complained. "You know the Indian kid ya capture days ago? Yeah, well, the boss be looking for 'em."

Charles nearly blanched at the man's despicable words, his mind immediately going back to the dreadful conversation he had with the Native child two days ago, when he unveiled the truth of his parents and his relationship to Haytham. But he was a man of composure and wit, and he wouldn't buckle under the potential strain. "And pray tell, how would you know this? Last I heard, Kenway was tearing this city apart for an Assassin."

Hickey shrugged. "Dunno 'bout no Assassin, but the boss was asking loads of questions 'bout a Native boy who was dragged in from the forests. Seemed a bit too coincidental what with the boy you plucked up."

Charles' heart dropped to the depths of his stomach at the man's words, the potential unspoken truth making his nerves go taunt with fear. If what Hickey said was true, if Haytham was truly seeking out the child, it left the unnerving question as to his motive. After swallowing the bittersweet taste of success from the throngs of warfare countless times, Charles wasn't a man to rely on coincidence or substantial feelings; coincidence was merely out of one's hands, out of his control, and far to abstract for his refined and precise habits.

And worst of all, Haytham was instilled with the crushing values of an unmatched warrior, his intellect as sharp as the blades he was proficient in. Passing off his insight as coincidence was nothing short than a slap in his face; the man was deserving of his esteemed position of leadership in their brotherhood, and no one dared to question his capability to lead it.

Clenching his teeth, Charles glared at Hickey. "So he pressed you for answers then, hm? And what did you tell him precisely?"

Not pausing or flinching, Hickey chuckled darkly. "You think I'm that stupid, do you? Begging for my death from him? Of course I told him nothing."

Staring down the younger man, taking in the unfocused look in his hazel eyes that fogged much of his true intent, Charles was at a loss to believe the Irishman. His track record wasn't the most pristine, his knack for choosing sides for his own gain a revolting feature. And unlike much of his Templar brothers, Hickey was a tightly wrapped enigma when it came to his personal life and past, the only sparse information he allowed out was the obvious fact that he was from Ireland.

A gentle reminder to the younger Templar would do.

"A wise decision, Haytham would no sooner plant a bullet in your temple should he find out," Charles spitefully replied back. "And even if he graciously spared your life, _I_ wouldn't hesitate in spilling your innards all over the streets of this bloody town."

Either far too intoxicated to care or simply riding on his bravado, the Irishman merely blinked at the looming threat. "Well, I've heard nothin' from the forest rats 'bout the lad - have you even been talking to 'em?"

Charles resisted the urge to growl. In truth, he'd rather hoped the trail from the boy's capture wouldn't have gone cold so quickly, hoping one of their kind would've been searching for him. But without a distinguishable Native scouring the colonial town in search for the lost boy, the Templar was without a means to contact the secluded, Mohawk tribe. Though William grudgingly agreed with the plan, he cleared his name of any further involvement, the spineless man fearful that his involvement could negatively impact any future involvement he'd have with the Native and the surrounding tribes. But the hours were growing bleaker, the days having passed by without so much of a rumor that there were unaccounted for Natives in the colonial town.

Perhaps the boy was right; perhaps his proud people already cast his life to the side, forgotten about in the exchange that they remain at arms length from the white men.

"And how would you propose I do that, hm?" Charles snapped back. "Bloody well waltz into their village? I overestimated the sentiment of those savages - they've sent no one in search of the boy."

"Except Kenway."

"Haytham may have some peculiar tender fondness for those monkeys, but I'm confident his compassion only runs so deep." But the words were forced, as though Charles were telling them more to sooth his fretted nerves more than anything. He knew why Haytham was unearthing the city for the boy. His decision was already forced, the fate of the lad completed.

Taking a step back from Hickey, Charles knew what he had to do. "This entire conversation is fodder anyways. We've wasted far to much time and resources on the savage child, and if Haytham has taken some interest in his wellbeing, I'll be sure to put an end to this little escapade completely."

Despite his clouded judgment from the finer aspects of booze, Hickey furrowed his brow at the ill-intent. "Gonna drop the brat off back in the forest then, eh?"

The older Templar chuckled darkly. "That's putting it kindly. I was more siding with disposing his body in the earth scum that he is. But never you mind - come this time tomorrow, we'll be free of this, ah, issue." For a splitting moment Charles would swear he saw a glimmer of reluctance and doubt in the younger man's gaze, but just as quickly as it came, it was gone. Taking a few steps away from the murky depths of the alley, he fastened a grueling glare on the silent Irishman. "Drown yourself in the cheap booze you like, or surround yourself with your revolting company - whatever it takes to clear your mind of this ordeal. Because mark my words, Hickey, after tonight, there will be no more reminders of this Native boy."

Hickey dutifully clamped his mouth shut as Charles haughtily stalked off into the night, the intoxicated Irishman knowing better than to fall into step behind the elder Templar. Though he'd only been in the Order for nearly as much time as his brothers, save for their Grand Master, he so naturally recognized and adhered to the concrete roles they'd fallen so comfortably in. First introduced to the Order as the assistant to William Johnson, he struggled endlessly to rise above whatever demeaning stereotype his English brethren passed off on him. And initially, their presumptuous attitudes and stinging prejudices perturbed him greatly, though as the years rolled by unceremoniously, he grudgingly accepted their unshaken views.

Abandoning his post in the alley after seeing Charles disappear down the street, Hickey subconsciously navigated his way through the winding and often congested streets of Boston, his dubious mind and hazy thoughts racing. No matter how much he tried endlessly to appease his English brothers by carrying out the more dirty tasks in their line of work, Hickey was damned to the unwavering stereotype of his Irish roots. And yet, as the years progressed, he found himself caring less and less. Though they were of the same Order, he couldn't be more different. They were of posh and pristine upbringings and pedigrees, shipped away to exquisite boarding schools with a yearly tuition worth more than all the money Hickey's impoverished parents made in their lifetime. But he didn't have any of that - taught the basics of reading, writing and arithmetic by his mother, he never fathomed wasting hours in a classroom. Raised as the youngest child of three children, he was forced to watch uselessly as his father abused the effects of alcohol and, dismayingly, relay the abuse on his mother and elder sisters.

Turning his head down as he walked beneath a lit lamp post in a habitual effort to shield his features from prying eyes, Hickey chewed on the aged memories that swam in his vision, memories that refused to be shoved into the depths of his mind no matter how many times he tried.

And in his youth before his tenth birthday, he remembered that vexing day when he'd heard his mother's anguished screams one to many times, when he could no longer fall asleep to the lullaby of his sisters begs, of flesh hitting flesh, or worst of all, metal hitting flesh. He could no longer pass his uselessness in the troublesome situation on his tender age.

Living the slums of Dublin, the authorities never considered foul play when they responded to his mother's frantic call after finding his father's lifeless body. But Hickey had covered his tracks immaculately well; they never found the empty vials of arsenic buried beside the stately oak tree on the side of their shoddy excuse of a house.

Mistakenly meeting the observing and calculating stare of a Redcoat, Hickey forced himself to nod his head in feigned respect. He despised every bit of them; and yet, he was once one of them, dressed up in the costume of a soldier in hopes to hide his pitiful excuse of an upbringing. His father's death wasn't a blessing to their small family, and while the abuse ended, the financial burdens only mounted, and eventually his sisters were forced to turn to servitude to make ends meet. He never had the heart to divulge the truth to them, that his father's death soiled his once innocent hands, that it was his doing they were forced into a hardened and despicable life at such young ages, their youth stolen from them. But he remained close with them as he aged, even stepping in his father's place during their weddings.

Forgiveness was not a gift he granted easily, especially to himself. After his mother passed away, he promised himself to continue watching over his sisters, trying endlessly to repay the incredible debt he harbored, but no amount of money would fill that empty hole in his chest. Even after he moved to the New World and tapped into his more cunning - albeit illegal - skills, he still mailed money back to his sisters, to his young nieces and nephews he never met and likely never would.

Hickey didn't even realize he was moving through Boston automatically, his mind already navigating to a direct house, to a see a specific person. His mind thought back on his nieces and nephews, and perhaps it was from these thoughts that dictated his direction. It was years since he'd seen his oldest niece, Gael, and if he was calculating the years correctly in his drunken state, she would nearly be eleven years old. But little Mona had just celebrated her fifth birthday, and Hickey proudly remembered mailing a parcel packed with the delicacy of cocoa and an Indian baby doll toy he secretly traded a tribesman for a pint of ale. Not a man of finances or record keeping, he wasn't precisely sure how much money he actually shoveled into his distant family, nor did he care. He didn't care that his meager house was significantly smaller than his Templar brothers, or that he didn't lavish himself in similar finer luxuries.

But beyond all of that, he couldn't shake off Charles' words - the Native lad would be killed come the morning. He couldn't forget the utter fear in the child's eyes, his bewildered expression etched in the young Templars mind. When he left Ireland all those years ago, Gael was only the tender age of four. Her red tresses curled tightly and her vibrant green eyes wild with energy, he hoped to never forget her sweet face, or her high pitched laugh. And yet, as he thought about her young features, he unknowingly thought about the Native boy that was around the age of four or five; he must have had family he was ruthlessly dragged from.

His crime was simply wandering too far from the safehaven of his tribe.

Reaching the outskirts of the city, free of the suffocating vile of overcrowding, Hickey eyed the regal estate of the house before him, taking in the serene white picket fence around the front yard. He felt like he didn't belong on the attractive, quaint property, even fearful that his dirtied hands would leave grim on the white fence door. Moving down the cobblestone walkway, he ignored the cheerful spring flowers that lined the path, and instead focused his attention on the door that fast approached. Stumbling slightly up the few steps that led to the door, he quickly pulled his sloppy shirt in a poor means to ensure his appearance was somewhat presentable, hastily buckling his belt. Satisfied, his hand shakily grabbed the brass knocker and slammed it against the thick oak door a few times. The sound of movement from the dwelling could be heard, and it didn't take long for the door to eventually swing open, the master of the household standing in the doorway with a curious look.

"Hickey. This is rather unexpected."

He nodded his head unsurely. "Haytham... I need to talk to ya 'bout that Indian boy. See... I think I know where he's at."

* * *

The morning sun was just reaching over the obscuring horizon, its rays stretching to bask the New World with its brilliant glory. But in the desolate, arid barn situated in the countryside of Boston, not even the invigorating rays could extend their energies to the forced inhabitant. His arm still bounded by the vile iron shackle, Ratonhnhaké:ton lay spent against the hot wooden planks of the wall behind him, his head alternating between falling forward to rest his chin on his chest and falling back against the wall. The food had stopped after his last meeting with Charles two days ago, when he told the man his father's name, though the filthy pail of daily water still continued. Not that it mattered much - depleted of his energy, the child struggled to gather the strength to crawl over to the water and lap up the liquid with his cupped hands. The heat was nearly unbearable, his body long stopping in attempting to cover himself in a sheen layer of sweat to cool his temperature.

His throat dry and parched, he heard the familiar sound of his caretaker pulling back the door to the barn; the same sound he heard everyday when the man would deliver his water. But today was different... today wouldn't simply be a delivering of water but instead a promise of his death from the other Englishman. Not that Ratonhnhaké:ton had the strength to battle against him - he hardly had the strength to lift his head. And so when he heard the feet shuffling through the barn, he merely forced his eyes open; he wouldn't allow the man the satisfaction of killing him asleep.

Suddenly the footsteps stopped and a strange, nearly silent noise of a mechanism sounded, followed by a loud thud of something heavy landing on the dirt ground of the barn. Alarms sounding worriedly in Ratonhnhaké:ton's head, he merely blinked a few times, his lack of sleep despite his exhaustion taking its toll, his dehydrated and malnourished state weighing heavily for his youthful age. Even if he wanted to put up an amiable fight against his killer, he knew he couldn't.

Void of physical weapons or a means to fight back, Ratonhnhaké:ton relied on the only weapon he had at his disposal: his heated glare.

It only took seconds before a colonist appeared before his cell bars, and for a split second Ratonhnhaké:ton was taken back, his eyes blinking repeatedly at the new man that stood stationary. He'd never seen the regal looking Englishman, his bulky build as menacing and intimidating as the blade that rested loosely in his limply hanging hand. Fatigued brown eyes met astonished, examining hazel ones. Blinking past the onslaught of despair at knowing what lay ahead, at knowing that the sharpened weapon would end his short life, Ratonhnhaké:ton refused to allow his gaze to leave the man. He watched the man be pulled from whatever momentary reverie and proceed to meddle with the lock on the cell door.

He could've pleaded for his life. Begged. Cried. But he'd die with honor - as a true warrior in his tribe.

The lock falling to the ground with a quiet thump, the cell door swung resolutely open. Ironic - for the past week Ratonhnhaké:ton dreamed of seeing the door open, but now that it was happening and with the ominous circumstances, he dreaded it, knowing the inevitable. As the Englishman slowly moved into the dainty cell, the boy instinctively plastered himself against the wall in a feeble attempt to distance himself from his assailant.

"You are here to kill me," the Native said, he words coming out more of a statement than a question.

His hands stilling for a moment as he grabbed the youth's weak arm bound by the shackle, the Colonist frowned at the boy. "No."

The answer was short, his tone leaving no room for opposition or argument, and Ratonhnhaké:ton peculiarly felt himself compelled to fall into subordination to the authoritative voice. His limbs weak and tired, he didn't struggle at the confident, strong arms that harbored a slight gentleness as they moved him, allowing the man to gain excess to the angry manacle attached to the wall. "I-I do not understand. Who are you then?"

And as the man shifted, his stiffly pressed clothes stubbornly moving in the process, a small pendant popped free from the depth of his shirts. And it was that small pendant, the unmistakable markings from the sacred site, that grabbed Ratonhnhaké:ton's attention immediately, his eyes fastened on the familiar runes. The pendant that was described by his mother...

The iron cuff fell free from his abused wrist, the blood in the veins pumping furiously at the open passages. "Is your name Haytham Kenway?"

The Englishman glanced down into the boy's face, taking in his fatigued and weary features, his eyes blinking repeatedly in a poor attempt to push the tiredness away. Breaking a silent vow not to fall privy to any and all familial connections, instead opting to remain stoic and professional in his plight, the colonist felt his resolve slipping away, as though his strong front was etched away with a mere look from the child.

From his child.

Haytham nodded slowly, carefully securing a muscular, sturdy arm around the child's small waist. "Aye, that I am. Are you able to walk?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton wobbly stood on his two legs, though much of his weight was supported by the arm behind him, and his mind was on anything but his physical feats. His gaze fixated on the older man, the man who he only dreamed about and conjured images of for the past few years, stood only a few inches from him. Taking in the man's attributes, his eyes darted over the scruff of facial hair, his delicately chiseled jawline, and his determined yet fierce eyes. An onslaught of questions bombarded the child's feeble, weakened mind, while his heart simply soared to heights at his dream-like state.

A meeting he'd only dreamed about with the man he thought he'd never meet.

"You are my father," Ratonhnhaké:ton stated, swaying considerable. "But how did you find me? The man was going to kill- "

Haytham shook his head. "You need not worry about him anymore. Now, answer my question, boy. Are you able to walk or not?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton was resolved to having his questions wait, and he took a few steps forward in an attempt to pacify his father's pressing questions. Thankfully the secure arm didn't budge an inch, perhaps expecting the boy to fumble, which was precisely what he did. Just as his weakened legs gave out beneath him, the arm around his midsection hoisted him up, his feet leaving the security of the ground. A second arm snaking beneath his knees, Ratonhnhaké:ton struggled to retain consciousness as his world spun on a tilt, his vision plunged into a state of vertigo. But either his father didn't care or didn't take heed to his uneasy grasp on consciousness, as the man already was moving towards the cell door.

The Englishman's blue wool coat was thick and scratchy against Ratonhnhaké:ton's dirtied cheek, though the sensation did little to deter him from nestling closer to the older man. In search of some means of comfort and security, the feat of maintaining an aura of feigned confidence tiring, he allowed his makeshift walls of reliance crumble down, leaving his core raw and naked.

"Where are we going?"

Haytham mindfully turned his body to the side to shield the boy's line of sight from the bleeding out lifeless body on the barn floor. "Home."

* * *

The crackle of a fire ember in the hearth on the other side of the inn room drew Haytham's attention, but only for a split second. There was a small body pressed against his as though seeking a sense of security in the dismal situation - or what was undoubtedly a nerve-racking, fearful situation for the child. But the boy was no longer trapped in the dainty, hot barn stall outside of Boston. Only a mere few hours had passed since Haytham cunningly picked the lock on the stall door, his first sight of his son a harsh mixture of relief for finding him, sadness for the circumstances, and anger for the horrid conditions he was kept in. Considering the small pale of rancid water the child was given to survive off it in the cruel heat, he was amazed the boy was still conscious when he found him.

But that was hours ago - now they laid silently on a decently sized inn bed in the frontier of New York. If Haytham rode through the night with little breaks, they could make it to his village by the afternoon of the following day. But he wasn't alone.

Feeling movement next to him, Haytham glanced down at the small boy. His Native clothes - the deerskin vest and leather pants - were beyond repair and restoration. The Grand Master had made due with what he could, with the limited resources of the quiant frontier town they stopped in, and managed to find a set of knee-length breeches and white undershirt for him; unfortunately the child would have to go without shoes. The clothes looked incredibly out of place on the Native boy, the dirt on his sunkissed, tan skin a harsh contrast to the pale white shirt that hung loosely off him. A small smile spread on the Grand Master's face as he recalled the boy's utter confusion with the clothing when first presented with them, the fabric apparently a marvel to his uncultured mind. Considering the way the child acutely observed Haytham as he discarded his own layers of clothing, his face washed over in confusion and amazement, the man assumed he rarely saw colonists.

Moving his stare back up to the boy's face, Haytham was surprised to find his eyes open and fastened on the burning fire across the room. After the trying day, the child should have been spent. And while there was indeed exhaustion and fatigue in those chocolate eyes - eyes that looked nearly identifed to Ziio's - there was also a silent contemplation and burning drive. Haytham found himself hoping that as the boy grew and matured, experiencing the hardships and truths that life had to offer, that flame in his gaze would remain. Then again, he was a Kenway - of course it would. That wasn't the only trait he'd inherited from his English bloodline. His mouth, nose, and strong jawline were indeed Kenway; though given his tender age, the jawline was in need of some maturing, no doubt would become more refined as the boy developed. While he still looked every bit Native, his tan skin was significantly lighter than Ziio's. The child was a perfect mix of his parents.

And yet, as much as he savored looking at the child that was half of him, he couldn't resist the hallowing feeling in his stomach at knowing the hefty price he paid. The days leading up to finding his son had rolled by with incredible speed, the working hours of the days not quite enough to divide his attention between finding the boy and tracking the Assassin. Eventually - perhaps when he was five days into his searching - he stubbornly acknowledged that he simply couldn't afford to divvy up his efforts; if he was to successfully track one of the two, he'd need all of his energies shoveled into the plight.

His hand was forced in the matter regardless of the difficult decision. But during the time, it didn't seem so difficult; it was almost as if there was no question as to what needed to be done. The answer was blatant, the blow to his Order not quite registering as urgently pressing.

"Get some sleep," Haytham said, his own voice husky with hints of tiredness. His son turned to look up at him, his face impassive. "You're likely tired, are you not?"

The child shook his head, his shaggy black hair moving at the action. "I do not want to sleep. The morning will come too soon."

The man lifted a brow. "Is that such a horrid thing? We'll be leaving in the morning - if we make haste, you should be back at your village by nightfall tomorrow. Back just in time to sooth your mother's fretted wits."

Haytham was hoping his small jab at Ziio would at least make the boy crack a smile, but it had the opposite effect. Frowning deeply, the child uneasily broke the eye contact and glanced back over at the ablaze fire. "You will not stay... and I will not see you again."

The words were wise beyond the speaker's young years, the youthful voice the only reminder that they were spoken by a child. "You don't know that anymore than I do," Haytham countered, the forced optimisim in his voice horribly transparent.

"We both know that. I will stay in the Valley and you will go back to where you came from."

The Grand Master suddenly found the fire on the other side of the room as interesting as the boy did. "You speak as though that's a bad thing. You'll be back with your friends, mother and family."

"You are my family! My father!" Haytham nearly cringed at the crack in the boy's voice, but he kept coolly composed. It was what he did, how he was trained, how he coped with the emotional situations. But he wasn't expecting the distinguishable sniffle that sounded from the small body beside him. Glancing down, he watch the dancing flames reflect in the collecting pools of water in the boy's eyes. "Or...do you not want me?"

For the first time that night, the boy looked the vulnerable four year old that he was. "You've met me no longer than less a day yet you speak like we've been acquainted for years." The boy's bottom lip quivered. Haytham released a tense sigh; he couldn't speak to the child like he would his Templar brothers. He couldn't extend the same cold demeanor, no matter how much he wanted to. Unknowingly, he remembered back to his own boyhood, when he was his son's age, when both of his parents were alive and flourishing in the wealthy countryside of England. Back in those idealistic and perfect days, his parents enveloped him in securing love and support, and he drank up every bit of it. A frown tugged on Haytham's mouth as a dark thought crossed his mind - his father would never had said such callous words to him at his son's young age.

"Not wanting you has never been the issue. Your mother never told me of your existence, but now that I'm equipped with this knowledge, I can't deny that I want to keep you," Haytham replied, significantly more gentle. The boy seemed to sense the change in demeanor, his bright eyes fixated on the elder Kenway. "Though I'll be frank - I never foresaw myself having children. The idea of having to rear an offspring - instill good values and morals, things that I'm still struggling with - sounds absolutely terrifying."

"You are doing a good job."

Haytham smirked. "Why, thank you." He paused, waiting for the Indian boy to interrupt him or respond, but he didn't. Instead he looked resolute and calm, a striking contrast to the worry he had only moments ago. "Raadon... Raadon... I give up on your name. Your mother was daft for giving you such a difficult designation. Lord forbid she couldn't made it easier to pronounce."

The boy chuckled, apparently finding his frustrations humorous. "Ra-doon-ha-gay-doon. Say the first part - 'Ra.'"

Haytham hesitated for a moment. "Ra."

"Doon." The elder Kenway repeated it. "Ha." Simple enough, he repeated that as well. "All together that first part is 'Ra-doon-ha-"

Haytham felt stupid, but he'd pacify the boy - he wouldn't admit that he was clinging to the instructions. "Ra-doon-ha... yes, I seem to have that. Continue on."

"The rest is easy. 'Gay-doon'."

"Gay-doon'."

The child nodded. "So all together it is 'Ra-doon-ha-gay-doon'."

Blinking at the blur of words that spewed from his son's mouth, his experienced tongue with the language flowing the bizarre words with ease, Haytham tried regardless, though his speech was significantly slower. "Ra-doon...ha...gay-doon. Sweet Lord, that name is just too long. Your mother never gave you a nickname?"

The boy blinked, his lids feeling heaving. "What is a 'nick...name'?"

"A shortened name. Something easier to call you."

"But my name is not hard to say," the child said, confusion evident on his face and voice.

Haytham wasn't getting anywhere, and his patience was thinning fast. "Well, we can call you 'Radoon'." The boy made a face. "I agree... it sounds horrible. Hm... Gaydoon... Aydoon?"

"Aydoon?" The boy repeated. "Is that a common English name?"

"No - I don't think it's a name in any culture." Haytham paused, considering the boy's words. "You want an English name then?"

"My _real_ name is Kanien'kehá:ka. Maybe I can use have an English name for my... what did you call it again? A nickname?"

Haytham contemplated the boy's request as another ember cracked in the burning hearth. "Aydoon... Ayden? What do you think of the name 'Ayden'? It's as you wanted - English. Or rather, I believe it's Gaelic but still close to English."

His son grinned. "Ayden," he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. "Ayden...Kenway. I like it."

Ayden Kenway. Yes, it sounded fitting for their proud, strong pedigree. Allowing a comfortable, soothing silence to fall over them, Haytham simply stared at the fire for several minutes, hoping to keep his mind off of the inevitable that'd happen in merely a few hours time. His son was right... morning was bound to come and with it would bring an end to their short-lived escapades. Would what the boy said come to be truthful - would the first and last time he'd lay witness to his son be within a mere few days of eachother?

When he took on the challenge to track down and find his son, Haytham silently vowed himself to remain numb to any paternal emotions that'd plague him. He hadn't known of his fatherhood until recent; there was little purpose and meaning suddenly acquiring any attachments to the child. And yet, he hated the idea of the sun creeping over the horizon, of vacating the shoddy inn room, of leaving his son's side.

Haytham glanced down at his son's now sleep face. "Good night, Ayden."

* * *

The evening hawks were flying in swoops in the twilight sky overhead, their presence marking the end of the day. To any outsider, the edge of the Mohawk village that overlooked the Valley offered a serene, surreal view; a fresh water creek that flowed into the rapids of a river down stream, the crests of mountains in the distances, and stalks of trees the loomed overhead, their dense canopies waiting to be used as passage. But for Ziio, the view had become something of a curse. Since her son's kidnapping a week and a half ago, she'd grown to hate the image of the open Valley as she stood on the edge of her village, just inside the tall wall that protected their perimeters. Ever since she received Haytham's promise to bring Ratonhnhaké:ton safely back, she stood waiting, gazing out into the Valley with a strong hope to see her son when he returned.

She knew she was stupid for thinking Haytham would bring good on his promise; especially when she overheard the Elders describing someone similar to what Haytham called an Assassin. Five years ago, when they were together, she managed to get him to describe the centuries old war between his Order and the Assassins, earning a brief description of those he dubbed his enemy. And thus, when the Elders described the man that approached them as meeting the characteristics of an Assassin, she pressed for more information from them. He was leaving for London, they told her, and had booked passage to leave soon.

Squeezing her hand into a fist, her nails digging into the soft flesh on her palm, it was all she could do to berate herself. She was daft and hopeful thinking that Haytham could consider anyone else's wellbeing above his own gain. The Assassin would've left for London a few days ago, no doubt in the early morning. And knowing Haytham's flawless track record with carrying out the executions on the Assassins, she didn't doubt he either put his attention to finding the man, or was on his own way to London to intercept him.

Turning away the picturesque view as the sun lurched below the horizon, she released a tense, trounced sigh. She'd lost days of searching for Ratonhnhaké:ton, and would be back at square one come the next day. She would have to beg the Elders to allow her to employ the warriors of the tribe to track him down in Boston.

"_Ista_!"

She stopped dead in her tracks, her feet turning to lead.

"_Ista! _Wait!"

No. It couldn't be. She'd must've been imagining his voice, her own desperation to see him again winning precedence over her thoughts and wits. But she turned around regardless, and barely had a moments notice before a small person threw themselves at her waist.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" She exclaimed, wrapping her arms protectively around him, as though scared that he was just imagined and didn't want him to disappear. "What happened? How did you get here? Are you alright?"

But the boy didn't answer, apparently too enthralled with the enveloping satisfaction of being in his mother's embrace, her arms soothing and comforting. Hearing footsteps crinkle the leaves and grass, Ziio glanced up, her arms tightening around her son as though she expected to ward off an assailant. But as a figure emerged from the tree line, calmly closing the gap between them, she slowly released her grip on her son.

Meeting the man half way, Ziio all but forgot her composure as she threw her arms around the bulk of the colonist. "Haytham... I-I did not think you would..."

Meeting his son's watchful gaze over the short woman's shoulder, Haytham grinned. Despite her thin arms and frail looking body, Ziio's appearance was an illusion to her true strength. He felt his lungs struggling for breath from her incredibly tight hug. But he'd pacify her - he could only imagine the fretting she went through over the course of the past week and spare days. Gingerly untangling himself, he glanced down at her as the boy returned to his mother's side. "You didn't think that I would find him?"

"It is not your ability that I questioned - you are the most resource man that I know of. But it was your devotion," Ziio responded, not moving her stare from the tall man's face, taking in his unshaven scruff.

"My devotion?"

"I heard of the Assassin," she blurted out. He lifted a brow at this. "Of his passage to London. I assume that you..."

Haytham shook his head, his eyes flashing darkly for a second. "I didn't intercept him before he could disembark." He paused, glancing for a longing moment at his son. "Despite being as resourceful as you claim me to be, I cannot make myself be in two places at once."

A long silence spread over the trio, the background noise a calming harmony of the soothing forest and it's natural inhabitants. But Ziio couldn't shake off the knowledge she'd been granted; of being proven wrong for the man she left because of such wrong thinkings... the father that she kept her son away from. "Haytham... I do not know how to thank you. My words mean nothing. Please, if there is anything I or my village can give you, within bounds, please ask for it."

"Anything?"

Ziio hesitated. "As I said, within bounds, but yes, anything."

For a few seconds, Haytham eyed his son's face, taking in the complimentary mixtures of his features from his parents. The precursor site immediately budded to the forefront of his mind, his desire to gain entrance to it a constant problem that needed remedying. And yet, even with years of desperately seeking a means to have even a few hours at the site, the true answer was obvious. A small smile going across his face, he turned to Ziio. "Marry me."

She blinked. "What?"

"Marry me, Ziio," he repeated, taking one of her small hands into his. "Please, don't leave me again. Come back to Boston with me, marry me... I promise you, I will watch over and protect you... give you and Ayden a perfect home."

Her brows furrowed. "Who is 'Ayden'?"

"That is my... nick-name," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, darting his eyes between his parents.

"Ziio," Haytham began again, his voice heavy with unbridled emotions; feelings that were once held resolutely behind a concealing dam for years. Though as calm and cool as she normally was, the woman's face glinted with hints of surprise and alarm. "Please - we were happy together before...and I've proven my work is second to you and Ayden. Let me be there for you and him. Let me be a husband and a father."

She swallowed thickly as a soft gust of wind blew around them, though the strong currents didn't come between the family. "There was an attack on the village a week ago - just after Ratonhnhaké:ton was taken. My help is needed here, Haytham. I cannot abandon-"

"That's a quick remedy," he waved away her concern. "I'll send your people aid." He saw her eyes flash in defiance, no doubt preparing to deny the offer, but he was quick to continue. "For once, Ziio, let your guard down. The words I speak are sincere, as are my intentions. I don't mean to pry you from your people - the trip to your village takes a mere couple days from Boston. Please, come back with me. Marry me."

Feeling a small tugging on her hand, Ziio glanced down, meeting her son's blank and innocent face. Taking in his youthful face, she couldn't skimp over the distinguishable English features he'd inherited. No matter how much she fervently tried to assimilate her son harmoniously into their village, encouraging him to partake in the typical play with the other Native children, she'd been ignoring the sheer fact that she was forcing a lifestyle that was not innately his. At least not entirely his. And considering he'd just gotten his first taste of his other heritage, of the fast-paced colonial lifestyle and witty demeanor of his father, she knew it was only a matter of time before he would inch away from the Valley.

Feeling a firm gaze on her, Ziio glanced back to Haytham. A man she once loved and swooned over years ago, she once forgot the peculiar flutter in her chest when he met her gaze. Or that irksome, smug grin he always had when he thought himself cunning or quick. Or the way he'd puff his chest like a brooding chicken before conversing with someone who he thought needed a bit of intimidating. She'd forgotten the smiles he shared only for her presence, the smell of his sagewood aftershave, and the securing arm he'd keep on her waist after intimacy.

Though beyond all of those forgotten quirks and characteristics, she'd forgotten how much of her heart she left behind with him.

"Ok," she said softly, almost losing her strong front at the utter relief that passed over his features. "I will marry you and return to Boston... but I will still raise Ratonhnhaké:ton with customs from my people. We will visit as much as we can."

"Of course," he replied, happiness leaking in his accented voice. "And I will be sure to investigate this attack on your village. I'll find out who did it."

Ziio didn't have to question whether he actually would - she wasn't lying when she said he was the most resourceful man she knew. But she wasn't an invalid when it came to resourcefulness; she may have been significantly less sly and cunning as Haytham, but she felt fairly able minded in making decisions for the best. And while it was indeed her pleading, love-struck heart that made the decision to accept Haytham's hand in marriage, her innate keenness had given its blessing to the decision. Married to the Grand Master of the Templars would indeed have its advantages, especially where her peoples wellbeing were concerned.

She just hoped that her decision wasn't a mistake.


	4. Chapter 4

**I can't begin to describe how thankful I am for the gracious words I've gotten in the reviews. This universe is really full of truly thoughtful, wonderful readers, and I can't express my gratitude enough. Anywho, I hope you enjoy this next chapter! It was so much fun to write! **

* * *

Boston was nothing like the Valley. After only a day in the budding, colonial city, Ayden had learn that rather quickly. Standing in the small yard in front of the brick estate that was dubbed his new home, he couldn't help but notice how different it was to the Native lands he left behind. There were no mountains or hills to make up his playground, no rivers or streams to wade in, no forest dwellers to watch in marvel. But that didn't make it any less frightening - quite contrary, he was terrified even to stand in the fenced in yard. While his mother strictly instructed him not to travel beyond the picket fence, he didn't have to be reminded by her; he had no intentions on remaining outside longer than a mere few more minutes. Why did he even bother venturing outside the estate?

Glancing around the dainty yard, his eyes landed on a young yet sturdy oak tree on the edge of the yard, it's long limbs stretching over into the neighboring yard. Trees... yes, those were familiar.

Making his way over to it, he pulled and tugged at his fresh clothes his father presented him with earlier that morning when he arrived at the estate with his mother. Apparently his deerskin clothing wasn't accepted in Boston. Another change he'd have to get used to. But if it meant he would be granted the allowance to see his father, he would gladly swallow the annoyance. Sure, he'd miss his friends back in the village dearly, but he knew he was an outsider; _something_ just didn't feel right. But he thrust such thoughts from his mind. Maybe he was right where he belonged.

Already barefoot, he shrugged off his jacket and jumped to the lowest limb, his hands instinctively wrapping around the branches and hoisting himself up. The tree was young - much younger than the looming trees in the Valley, and he was mindful to carefully shift his weight as he climbed up the tree. Moving further down a limb, he basked in the familiarity, ignoring the wear it put on his clothes. His parents seemed preoccupied by "adult discussions" - or so they called it - regarding something about a wedding and making arrangements for their new arrival to the estate. He wasn't sure what his mother meant when she told him he'd be attending schooling in Boston in a few months. Maybe they'd be too busy with their adult conversations to notice the wear on his new clothes.

"No! I _told_ you! You have to run around with the axe up and smack your hand on your mouth like this!" The sound of a young boy grabbed Ayden's attention, who leaned over on the branch to the next yard.

"It's called a _tomahawk_," sounded a high-pitched voice from a girl. "This game is so stupid, Oliver."

"Shut it, Grace. Alls you have to do is pretend that Tommy - who's playing the Indian - is trying to kill you or kidnap you or something. Just run from him."

Craning his neck as far as he could, Ayden was only granted a paltry view of a small band of children where the voices drifted from. Three boys and one girls, all around his age or a tad bit older, stood in a semi-circle, toy weapons and dramatic clothing strew on the ground around them. One of the boy's wore what looked like a bathrobe with sticks and twigs shoved into the pockets and arms, and feathers coming out his hair. The other two boys wore clothing similar to that of other colonists. Looking cross and irate, the young girl had an oversized bonnet tied to her head, while the dress she wore hung off her small frame, obviously several sizes too big for her.

"And what happens when he catches me?" the girl, Grace, countered sharply.

The boy, Oliver, rolled his eyes and released a frustrated sigh. "Then me and Emmett fight Tommy! That's the whole point of this! Good grief... this is why we don't invite girls!"

Ayden would swear he thought the branch strong enough to hold his weight, but as he heard the frightening sound of wood cracking, his assumptions were far off. Scrambling to back up off the teetering limb, his efforts were in vein - the damage was done. A final crash sounding through the air, he grabbed the bark roughly as he felt himself freefall downwards. A shriek sounded, and he wasn't sure if it was from him or another. Despite being up so high, the ground came a lot faster than he thought it would, and with it, incredible pain and discomfort. The jolt of the impact shook his tattered body and muscles, his arms unable to remain wrapped around the branch, he was sent rolling away in a heap from the abused tree limb.

A distinctly female voice shrieked, the girl a mere few feet from Ayden. Just his luck he'd land in their yard. But his head pounded menacingly, his chest feeling as though it were on fire with every breath.

"Grace! Go get mother or father!"

Strangely, Ayden recalled the voice - Oliver. Slowly cracking his eyes open, his vision danced, but he was able to make out three faces peering down at his prone body, their eyes wide with astonishment.

"Whoa... look at his skin! It's like he's a negro but lighter skinned."

"It's an Indian, Emmett."

"No way, Tommy."

Despite his swimming vision, Ayden was granted a better view of the boys with his unexpected close quarters. Looking a few years older than them, Oliver had a mop of blonde hair and a pair of striking blue eyes; both attributes a harsh contrast to Ayden's black hair and dark brown eyes. But the other two boys appeared closer to his age, and though both had chestnut hair, the upkeep was significantly different. Emmett's hair was tied neatly back by a single ribbon, the groomed locks in place, while Tommy's hair hung loosely to his shoulders with the feathers in it, tangles evident in the hair.

"Are you ok?" Oliver asked, ignoring the bickering looks his two friends sent to each other. Gingerly helping Ayden to a sitting position, the boy glanced up at the tree. "That was a mighty high fall."

"I have had worse falls," Ayden replied, a noticeable painful twinge in his tone. He heard in the distance the sound of a door opening and slamming shut with quickness. Feeling Oliver's supportive hand on his shoulder, he sent the boy a grateful look. "Th-thank you."

"I'm Oliver Hudson. This is Emmett Blackwell and Tommy Hopkins. What's your name? I haven't seen you around here before."

Fully sitting up, Ayden winced incredibly at the painful pressure in his chest, no doubt bruising a few ribs in his face. Blinking back a wave of nausea as his eyes watered, he glanced at Tommy, taking in the awkward hold on the wooden, toy tomahawk that hung loosely in his grip. "You are holding that wrong."

The other boy blinked, darting his curious gaze down to his play weapon. "Huh?"

"Your tomahawk," Ayden began, ignoring the incredulous looks from the boys. "You get a better swing if you grip further down the handle."

Emmett's eyes widened to saucers, realization dawning on him. "Wait... you're a _real_ Indian?!"

"Oliver! Boys! What's going on?"

The distinctively adult male voice drawing the band of boys' attention, Ayden instinctively felt his body tense at the unfamiliar voices that matched equally strange faces. A man and woman, both adorned in what was considered fashionable and affluent clothing for colonists, briskly trotted up to him, both their faces painted in a sheen look of concern mixed with panic. A few strides behind the couple was the young girl, Grace, her arms full of bandages and other sparse medical supplies. The oversized bonnet was no longer on her head, either by choice or finally succumbing to its difficulty to remain in place, allowing her long golden hair to cascade freely down her back. Despite the throbbing pains in his chest and head, Ayden couldn't rip his gaze from the blonde locks; after growing up in the village, he'd only heard tales of the different hues of hair color, especially the stark contrasting color of his own black hair.

"Mother! Father!" Oliver exclaimed in an excited yet panicked voice. "We were just playing and then he fell from the tree!"

The man surveyed the scene, his gaze darting between the snapped tree limb and the sitting, wounded boy, his mind briskly comprehending what occurred. "Good gracious, lad. Are you well?" But as he reached the boy's side, the man paused for a moment, taking in the tan skin and strangely familiar features. "You must be Haytham's boy."

Ayden nodded hesitantly. "Ayden Kenway."

Helping him to his feet, not missing the way the child placed a protecting hand on his rib cage, the man nodded. "Yes, your father told me you were arriving sometime today." The boy sent him a confused look. "Oh, my apologies. I'm Mister Eric Hudson - I work with your father." He glanced back at his wife, who eyed the boy in an examining fashion, no doubt taking inventory of any possible maladies. "My wife, Misses Martha Hudson. It seems you've already met two of my children, Oliver and Grace, and their friends."

"He's an Indian!" Tommy blurted out, darting his excited gaze over Ayden.

Mister Hudson frowned at his son's friend - the Blackwell family never did pride themselves with attuned etiquettes and decency. "That's quite enough, Thomas." Though in truth, he was just as curious as to the boy's Native heritage. With time, however, he assumed Haytham may divulge such minute and intimate details in one meeting or another, especially if the boy before him was to inherit the Order at some point in his lifetime. "Now, let's get you back to your parents. Looks like you might have bruised a few ribs."

Ayden shrugged, feeling incredibly uncomfortable with the attention. "I am fine, actually. A little sore but not bad."

"Can you stay and play with us?" Oliver boldly asked, ignoring the lecturing glare from his mother. "I mean, if you're ok and all."

The Native boy paused, his eyes lingering to the toy weapons and tomahawk. He'd played with children around his age back in the village, their games of pretend and make believe tales consuming their time. But colonial children... that was a different breed entirely. And while his parents hadn't instructed him to forge friendships and meet the other children, he naturally assumed he should've ventured in the territory.

"That's a fine offer, Oliver, but Ayden should get back to his parents. Maychance he feels better come the morrow, he may visit perhaps more planned," Misses Hudson butted in, her guiding hand on the Indian boy's shoulder sealing his fate, ignoring the frowning faces of the children. A mother to four children and a fifth on the way, her maternal instincts were as sharp as the hidden blade she knew her husband kept on him, and she didn't doubt her new neighbor would appreciate their son being returned promptly. Falling into step beside Mister Hudson, the young Native child between them, she didn't miss the audible wheezing from the boy. "I fancy you've traveled quite far these past few days, hm?"

Mister Hudson spared a curious glance down at the boy as they rounded the fence.

"Yes, ma'am," Ayden replied politely, the hand on his aching ribs not moving.

Silently the trio made their way around the Hudson estate, coming up to the immaculately groomed Kenway yard. Never had Mister Hudson assumed to spot a child - least of all Haytham's - on the esteemed Grand Master's property. The luxurious and stately manor had always seemed so bachelor-like, as though the priceless antiquities and possessions inside were far to fragile share a roof with a rowdy child. But he was wrong, though he was sure there was significantly more to the story of the young Native's presence than merely face value.

Placing a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder as they walked up the brick steps to the front door, Mister Hudson slammed the door knocker a few times. As expected, it didn't take long for the thick wooden door to be pulled back, revealing a bemused and surprised Haytham. Grinning tightly at the Grand Master, he watched his fearless and devoted leader snap his eyes to his silent son.

"Eric. Misses Hudson," Haytham respectfully addressed them, tipping his head ever so slightly at the woman, though his examining gaze never left the silent child. His newly tailored jacket was gone, his once pressed shirt untucked and soiled with patches of smeared dirt. Immediately noticing the twinges of pain that'd cross over his son's face with every labored breath, his small hand protectively resting on his chest, the Grand Master resisted the urge to sigh. The boy was only in Boston for a mere few hours and he was already finding trouble in merely the yard. "What happened?"

Ayden swallowed the lump in his throat, his father's scrutinizing face eliciting potential worries. "_Ikhsata's ken aka:ratsi_."

"English, if you wouldn't mind."

"I fell," the boy replied plainly. The Grand Master lifted a questioning brow. "From a tree in the yard... the branch snapped."

Undecided whether to berate the child for his apparent disregard for his safety or tarnishing his new clothes, Haytham found himself at a sudden loss for how he intended to reprimand the child even if he wanted to. While the reliance on a few back handed slaps was customary in the art of child rearing, the Grand Master recalled his loathing of the disciplinary method from his own youth; though neither of his parents rarely resorted to such. Typically it was his nurse maids that'd deliver the punishment outside of his father's bellowing, disappointed voice, while his mother favored her crying spells in a hopeful means to guilt him into submission. Both methods worked like a charm.

Eyeing the Indian child before him, Haytham wasn't sure it would work on Ayden. He felt fairly confident he could deliver a demeaning spiel that'd make his late father proud, but he didn't know if the boy would even be receptive to a lecture. Maybe disciplining in the village was harsher, more barbaric; maybe they relied on the physical reprimands.

"It looks like he might have hurt some ribs in the fall," Misses Hudson said, pulling Haytham from his musings. Her soft, tender gaze eyed the small boy. "Probably would do him some good to have a bit of rest and wrap his chest. A cup of tea wouldn't hurt any either."

"I suppose," Haytham replied somberly. "At any worth, I truly apologize for my son's disruption. I pray he didn't damage anything else, other than his ribs, that is."

Eric chuckled, his hand dropping from the boy's shoulder, and began moving towards the cobblestone steps, his wife at his side. "Only a downed branch. Though he did give the children quite a fright. Poor Grace was out of her wits - she thought the lad was dead!"

The levity from his fellow Templar and neighbor made Haytham grin, imagining the Hudson children running around with wild assumptions. After sending formal pleasantries of thanks to the couple, making some preliminary plans to rendezvous with Eric later in the week to discuss the new tea shipment that was expected, Haytham slowly shut the door after they left. His securing hand never left the boy's small shoulder beneath his grasp and he silently led the child up the stairs.

Ayden didn't say anything as he softly padded down the second story corridor, his short legs taking significantly longer strides to match the pace of his father's taller stature. His chest felt tight with a throbbing ache, as his lungs struggled to suck in the necessary air despite his bruised ribs detesting the action. But he tried to shove any evidence of his malady from his features; for whatever reason, he wanted to showcase himself as strong and confident before the elder Kenway.

Reaching his father's study at the end of the hall, he silently followed the older man in. Spending the first four years of his young life tucked away in the valley, he'd only heard stories of the white men's world, of their stone villages and looming houses. But never in the extravagant stories had he heard about men keeping "studies" or "dens". When he first toured his new home, his father struggled to describe the purpose of the secluded room, and eventually resorted to simply saying it was his "private room" to conduct his work; work that Ayden was still clueless about.

He remained silent as his father gestured for him to sit at one of the oak chairs situated around a table, the surface littered with parchment and scattered maps. Ayden silently complied, not taking his eyes off his father as he grabbed a basket from inside one of the drawers in the large desk. "Take off your shirt. I need to see your chest."

Complying with his father's order, Ayden slowly worked the small buttons on his shirt and slowly shrugged it off his shoulders, wincing at the strain the movement put on his abused ribs. "I am sorry, father. I did not think the branch would break."

Kneeling in front of his son, Haytham placed the basket filled with sparse medical supplies - the stash of bandages he relied on when returning from an ill-planned work related meeting - on the tabletop. The boy watched his every move like a wounded animal, his eyes shining with a hint of a feral being. Haytham glanced over the child, taking in the already bruising regions on his naked torso, the injury showing its colorful signs on his tanned skin.

"I assume your mother taught you how to climb trees," the elder man said lightly as he gently pushed away the small hand stationed on the injured ribs. "She always preferred traveling through the canopies than more... conventional methods."

Ayden reluctantly nodded, finally breaking eye contact uneasily. "She does not like when I climb. She is afraid I will fall and get hurt."

Haytham paused, and lifted a sarcastic brow at his son. "I see you listen to her rather well."

If he was so concerned about the large digits that pressed into his hurting side, the boy would've sheepishly looked away, maybe even had a flush spread on his face. Instead he merely swallowed the bile that threatened to rise up in his throat, his stomach flipping at the dull pain while his lungs hungered for more air. But he was no stranger to falling from high perches, much to his mother's detesting. But when he'd grudgingly stumbled back into the village following a poorly planned landing, typically relying on his Native friends for support, he was damned to the grueling lectures from his mother and the dreadful added chores that'd serve as a punishment.

Relieved when the fingers dropped from his wound, Ayden watched his father pull out a roll of white cloth bandages. "Are you going to punish me?"

"Should I punish you?" Haytham asked as he unraveled the bandages and wrapped them around the child's small torso. "I'd imagine a few bruised ribs would serve as punishment enough. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Um... yes." The boy winced as the bandages were pulled taunt. "I will not do it again."

Eyeing his handiwork, feeling fairly certain the boy nursed a hurt pride more than his bruised chest, Haytham nodded solemnly.. "I would hope not. Boston is not like your woods or village, Ayden. These trees are newer - some aren't built for the weight of a child." He paused, taking in the doused flame in the child's gaze. "But I'm sure you've noticed that already. You'll get used to it with time."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, why don't you clean yourself up a bit? Supper will be served soon enough." The boy offering a small nod, Haytham moved towards the doorway. The sweet aroma of the sugared apple pork from the kitchen below enticed his senses. Sending one last look at his young son, not missing the desolate and lost look in his eyes, the Grand Master sent him a grin that he hoped would instill some sort of easing to his worry. "Best to put on your jacket. We wouldn't want your mother's wrath, hm? Heavens knows neither of us want that."

Adyen grinned at the unspoken promise as the stately Englishman left the study, leaving him to his vices and thoughts. Perhaps keeping the truth from his mother and sidestepping the droning lectures she tended to deliver wouldn't be so hard, especially with his father on his side. Though he was tender in years, Ayden wasn't daft, and he knew immediately his father's attempt to sway his affection with his fraternizing words. But he'd let the man have his play, and Ayden would reap the benefits of escaping his mother's heated glares.

It was a win-win.

Standing up from the stiff, wooden chair, Ayden glanced around himself, taking in the utter disarray of the study, a room that was supposedly dubbed "off limits" to him. Not wanting to get on his father's bad side so early in their budding relationship, the boy was already tiptoeing towards the door. The parchment looked rubbish anyways, the writings hasty and nearly not legible. But his father work hardly sounded interesting, at least in the present time, as Ayden has numerous other changes in his life that required his attention.

* * *

The crash of thunder shook the house. Bolting up in bed, the new, stiff sheets crumbling to his waist, Ayden blinked at the blinding darkness in his bedroom. The clashing storm rolled over the estate, the cruel winds slamming into the double paned window, but he was no stranger to foul weather. What he was new too, however, was being forced to endure the callous elements in solitude. It was only hours ago that his parents tucked him into his bed, the plush mattress and soft linens a stark contrast to the worn bed linens he was accustomed too back in the village. His mother had warned him it would take time to get used to the changes in his life, though over the course of a mere day, he'd already changed so much. He adopted a different name, got his first taste of colonial children, new clothes, a new bed, a new house, a new parent.

His once darkened room unexpectedly flashed with light from the strike of lightning outside of window. Only a mere second later did the expecting crash of thunder vibrate the foundations of the house, the glass windows shaking in their wooden frames. But Ayden's more sensible and logical thoughts were shoved from his mind. Throwing the blankets back violently, his bare feet were already running before they hit the ground.

The door to his bedroom was opened with a swiftness, thrusting him into an equally darkened hallway. The sounds of the ominous rumble overhead was enough to encourage his small legs to race down the narrow corridor, his light footfalls only making a soft pitter patter on the plush rug. Reaching the end of the corridor, he flung closed door open and raced into the darkened master bedroom, throwing himself on the grand bed on the opposite side of the room.

As expected, the once slumbering inhabitants were roused from their sleep.

"Ayden?" His father's fatigue laced voice sounded, though his body didn't seem to harbor the same lingering sleep. Ripped from his comforting sleep, his attuned instincts were tossed into overdrive, his trained hand drawing a sharpened dagger from beneath his pillow. But the crash of brilliant strike of lightning provided him with just enough illumination to dart his examining eyes over his bedroom, quickly taking inventory of anything that was out of place.

But everything was as it should've been. That is, save for the boy nestled between him and Ziio.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" Ziio exclaimed while she sat up, her freeflowing ebony hair cascading down her front, a stark contrast to her white laced nightgown. She ignored the movement from her future husband beside her, her attention captured by her son's fretfulness, her body consumed with a mixture of warming maternal sentiments and the fierce warrior instincts of her people. It was the tender emotions that drew her hand up to the boy's tear-stained cheek, her digits grazing over the trails of wetness that evidenced his duress. But her body was coiled up as though ready to attack while her eyes darted around herself, unknowing that Haytham had already done that moments before. "What is wrong?"

Though her words were spoken in English, the boy's were not. A bang of thunder and flash of lighting casting his face in a striking brilliance and shaking his wavering courage all the more, he opened his mouth and spewed furious sentences in his Native tongue. Though the occasionally sob interrupted his alarmed exclamations, it did little to allow Haytham to understand him. Ill-equipped with deciphering the foreign language, he was forced to idly sit and watch his afflicted son without a means to understand whatever the problem was.

Blinking in a momentary stupor, Ziio drowned herself in Ayden's worrisome words, and offered a heart-felt yet strong response in same language to him.

Snapping his eyes between Ziio and Ayden, hoping to learning something from their body language that would make up for his lack of knowledge for their language, Haytham was at a lose. Whatever the woman had said somehow soothed his suffering wits in the slightest; though his lower lip still quivered, the pools of tears had somehow dried up.

"Ayden," the colonist began, earning him a bemused and slightly edgy look from the boy. "What ails you? Is there something wrong with your room?"

Momentarily glancing at his mother's blank face, as though searching for approval to answer, Ayden didn't gain anything; only a blank yet strong look met his gaze. He was on his own. But yet, this was his home now; he was no longer a Native but a colonist. Ayden instead of Ratonhnhaké:ton. No longer forced to watch the other boys cling to their fathers words of wisdom, he was finally granted the blessing of having his father, regardless of the obvious sacrifices that had to be made for their conjoining.

A bolt of lightning crashed across the sky just as understanding dawned him, grabbing hold of his attention from the fearful elements.

Blinking for a bit, the boy ran his examining gaze over his mother, taking in her plain hair and strange clothing. The lace finish on the salvages of the neckline brushed against her sun-kissed skin, the elegant clothing feature losing its grace on her more rustic characteristics. Never had he thought he'd see the likes of his mother - of her strong, proud mind and body - squeezed into the bizarre clothing of the colonists. Constricted and covering, the clothing seemed to suffocate her pride and will, as well as conceal her tan skin that marked her true heritage.

"No, everything is fine," Ayden replied back, mindful to mentally switch his speech to English. But his father looked unconvinced. "I-I am not used to sleeping alone. Back in the village we were in long houses, and I had my cousins close by."

"I see," Haytham uneasily replied, his mind racking the potential routes the conversation could take, or he could lead it. To be fair, he was tempted to point out that before a few hours ago, he had the luxury of sleeping through the night unperturbed, but he was quick to hold his tongue. The boy's acquisition to his newfound hectic Colonial lifestyle would undoubtedly be a paramount concern on Ziio's mind when considering her agreement to the living situation as a success, as well as his own. Though he only met the boy a mere week ago, he couldn't help his gaze from lingering to the boy's distinguishable Kenway jawline or nose that evidenced his paternal connection with the child. "The storm should pass soon enough. If it would suit you, you can spend the night in here."

Ayden blinked. "Sleep in here? But I thought I am to sleep in my own...own..." he paused for a moment, thinking about the English word. "Bedroom."

"Normally, yes. But I see no qualms with making a small exception for your first night here," Haytham replied lightly, adding in a small grin he hoped the boy would see through the darkness.

Ziio didn't look particularly pleased, her chocolate eyes flashing with a hardened glint. "Haytham..."

But the Grand Master quickly lifted a hand, stilling her argument on her tongue. "For one night, Ziio. Besides, I would rather salvage what I can of the late hour than gamble him only returning a few hours later."

The woman didn't seem thoroughly convinced, her hardened face skeptically eyeing their son. "I do not want him thinking it is ok to argue these rules. He needs to get used to the changes."

Already rolling on his back and inching towards the edge of the bed to allow ample room for the child to rest between them, Haytham silently couldn't agree more. The entire notion of allowing the child to reside in their personal space sounded wretched, but he couldn't jeopardize the boy not assimilating well, lest he wanted his future wife and son to retreat back to the savage village they were from. "And he will... tomorrow night. Now go to sleep."

A few moments of silence passed, the only background noise coming from the occasional crash of lightning and the ruthless wind that slammed against the side of the house, threatening to break the double panes of glass in the windows. Laying his head against the smooth pillow, Haytham felt himself begin to drift away, his body feeling as thought it were sinking into the plush mattress and soft linens. And just as the tendrils of sleep were about to lull him into oblivion a little voice interrupted their plight.

"_Kwah tokén:'en sén:ta'wh._"

Haytham curiously glanced over at his son.

"That means 'good night'."

* * *

Ayden fidgeted in his clean clothes, standing in in the parlor room of his new house. Dressed in similar colonial attire he had on the day before, though his dirtied shirt was replaced with a crisp one, he was already beginning to loath the tightness of the fitted clothing. Sure, the cloth fabric was significantly lighter than the leather hides the villagers used in their attire, but the colonists had a bizarre preference to layer their clothing. The day was not cold; a comfortable spring time morning, the air was light and breezy, and Ayden found no reason for the added bulk of his jacket.

Perhaps the colonists had far too much resources; their need to dwindle their supplies on useless clothing items the only explanation. He also thought back on his first formal colonial supper the day before, after he'd fallen from the tree. Never had he seen such an incredible spread of food, nor had he experienced such flavorful spices and exuberant tastes. Unlike in his village, corn was not the dominate flavor in the foods.

Shifting his weight from one foot to another, at least reveling in his barefooted state that he was used to from his time in the village, Ayden attempted to crane his neck as voices floated from the foyer one room over. His father had begged him to remain presentable for a greater majority of the day, even going so far as to insist the house servant, Marilyn, assist in scrubbing him until the tan-hued skin could only be attributed to his Indian blood. Subconsciously, the boy scratched at his forearms, the soap residue feeling icky on his skin. But whatever meeting his father had scheduled - something along the sorts of meeting the men he worked with - sounded pressing. the elder Kenway turning to extremes to ensure his son was in his best state.

The voices drawing closer, Ayden narrowed his gaze at a revolting familiar voice that mixed with his father's.

"It was rather unexpected, I'll tell you that. But I'm more than elated at the prospect of having an heir and son," Haytham said as he walked into the foyer, his eyes turning from the men beside him to land on the boy in question. Grand Master wasn't sure what type of reaction he was expecting, but watching the boy uneasily take a few steps back, his hands flying up in front of him as though to ward off a potential attack, Haytham was quick to address him. "Ayden! 'TIs quite fine. These are the men that I work with - I imagine you'll be seeing them rather often."

"Haytham!"

The Grand Master craned his neck away from the uneasy boy at the yelling voice on the opposite side of the house, who refused to move his stare away from one of the Templars that filed into the room. "Ah, Ziio. One second!"

"I need you now!"

Ever the impatient woman. Sighing heavily, he sent what he hoped was a look of comfort to the visibly shaken child. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Be at peace, boy. These men are friends."

His heart dropping to his stomach as his father bemusedly vacated the room, Ayden didn't stop backing up from the colonists - the Englishmen who assaulted and captured him days ago - until his back collided with the wall, the hard surface refuses to budge no matter how much he wished it would swallow him up. Backed into the corner, he was forced to watch helplessly as the four men slowly approached him, two of which stopped in the middle of the room while the remaining two crossed the generous gap with unnerving ease.

But his father said they worked with him... he said the were friends...

"Charles," one of the men close to Ayden began, his face contorted into a mixture of astonishment, dread, and utter surprise. "This cannot be. If Haytham finds out- "

"I know that, Johnson," Charles snapped back, his voice low like a wolf's growl. The Indian child glared back at him, his eyes not showcasing the hint of fear he had in the forests when they first met, or in the barn. And perhaps it was that distinct lack of alarm, the sheer notion that he was safe from the man's ill-will, that grated against Charles' nerves all the more. Grabbing the boy's small shoulder in one hand, he quickly shoved him back against the wall, his digits cruelly digging into the doughy skin beneath the layers of clothes.

But still, the Indian child's resolute and confident face didn't falter.

"Now you listen, you bastard of a child," Charles started, leaning closer to the boy. "What I said in that barn will not change - you may be dressed up in the finest clothes your father can afford, but you'll forever be tainted with your savage blood. But what do my words mean now, hm? Now that you're able to hide behind your father's false sense of security and promises of a prominent future."

Ayden merely glared back, refusing to acknowledge the throbbing in his shoulder that was sure to leave a bruise later.

"Your father lived five years without knowing your existence, you pathetic boy. You truly think he'll be devastated to learn of your mysterious disappearance should you open that bloody mouth of yours." Charles paused, a dark smirk dancing on his features. "Or better yet, if your mother disappears. Oh, what a tragic day it would be if she were sold to the slavers in the Carolinas. I hear they fancy strong-headed woman."

Gritting his teeth, Ayden squeezed his hands into fists at his sides. Apparently his father hadn't known his supposed friends kidnapped him. "I will kill you if you touch my mother."

"Well then, I suggest you keep your mouth shut about our first meeting. As far as your father is concerned, you've never seen us before, understood? Do **not** underestimate me, child. Besides, why would you want to ruin this comfortable new life that you have? Ruin your relationship with your father? I mean, should you tell him what happened, you would tarnish his work." Releasing the shoulder, Charles took a few steps back, though the boy still looked incredibly distraught. "I think we'll find that this little arrangement will work out best for all of us."

Ayden swallowed thickly, his unsure eyes darting around the men as his father boisterously returned. Loathing and confusion didn't begin to describe the troubled sensations that washed over the youth, but he kept them in check, pushed back from washing over on his expressions. If what Charles said was true, if his truthful words to his father would result in ruining the hopeful relationship he had with his father, what gain would he get? These men, though detestable and vile in their actions, were of his father's allies; his father had only known him for less than week, why would he believe him? But the sheer truth that his father kept such despicable company left an even deeper recess in Ayden's chest, his heart feeling heavy with despair.

He was silent during the introductions of his father's associates, barely offering more than a nod of acknowledgement, though he clung to the Englishman's names. Sticking to their story, each one feigned a look of interest when Haytham described the wretched conditions he found his son in, and it took much of the boy's willpower not to point fingers. Think... he needed to think.

And so when Haytham somehow tangented into discussing something about the contents of a book and some man by the name of 'Achilles', the conversation grabbing the attention of the Templars, Ayden quickly slipped away from the room, tip toeing up the staircase to his bedroom. It was only after he softly shut the door did his mind and body fly into overdrive.

His father worked with those revolting men, but didn't know he was taken by them? Of course he didn't know, did he? Ayden sat heavily on the bed, his abused chest feeling just as thick with burrowing emotions and turbulent thoughts, the darkness descending on his mind like a veil. Just what kind of work did his father engage in to justify capturing innocent Natives, or attempting to purchase their lands? He recalled his conversation with Charles in the barn, when he confirmed they were indeed the Englishman seeking to buy the lands.

His father was a monster if he supported the revolting practice.

Jumping from the bed in an instant, he wiped away the rivers of tears that coursed down his cheeks, evidencing the trying emotions that grabbed at his feeble and weakened mind. If he'd put his mother's health and safety in jeopardy by telling his father the truth, then he simply wouldn't be around anymore; he'd return to the quaint village where he belonged, away from the corrupted white men that acted only for their gain, no matter the expense.

Pulling the bureau drawers open, he shoved his newly tailored clothes to the side, not caring at ruining their pristine folds and pressing. His hands grabbed at the familiar leather-hide pants and vest, pulling them out of from the back of the drawer; he didn't think he'd need them anymore with his newfound lot in life. But life was fickle. The fates were strange.

And yet, just as he prepared to angrily rip the colonial clothes from his body, rid himself of any remnants to his English heritage, a soft knock on his door stilled his actions. But whoever the person was wasn't waiting for an invitation, and before Ayden could prepare a testy retort, the bedroom door hesitantly cracked open enough for a man to slip into the room.

The man - Thomas Hickey, if Ayden was remembering his name correctly - shut the door with such careful and uneasy tenacity that Ayden was robbed of the snide remarks he was going to unleash. But the colonist looked just as unsure of his words as he stood blinking down at the boy for a few moments, taking in his angry tears and the Native clothes in his grasp.

Opening and closing his mouth a few times, his mind searching for the correct words, Hickey mentally kicked himself for even attempting to talk to the boy; hated himself for allowing his sentiment to follow the noticeably distraught child from the foyer. His famed reputation of snarky criticisms and greedy features was so much easier to maintain, so less trying on his nerves. Keeping his Templar brothers at an arms distance helped incredibly, allowed him to wallow in his own murky past and equally uncertain future in solitude. But he felt owing to the child, as though his involvement enticed him to ensure his wellbeing.

"No one really likes Charlie," Hickey blurted out. The child blinked, his hands twisting the clothes with uncertainty. "I mean, we respect 'im 'an all, but thas it."

"I do not remember you saying anything when he captured me in the forests," Ayden countered.

That one hurt. But it was true. "I got a job too, ya know. Ya know the consequence of wot would've happened had I stood up to Charlie? There ain't no tribe lookin' out for my hide." Hickey paused, and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest as his thoughts turned more sinister. "I need to ask ya a favor."

Ayden considered the man, remembering the first time he saw him in the forest days ago. He was quiet then, standing in the back of the group and only made a comment about him being 'smart for a savage'; the child recognized his strange accent immediately. But he was associated with Charles in someway, and that connection making Ayden weary of him. "What kind of favor?"

The boy was rightfully hesitant, Hickey mused. But he wouldn't gain any ground with intimidation or anger, the resolute brightness in the youth's gaze seeming unending. Pushing himself off the wall, Hickey ignored the small jump of surprise from the boy, and knelt before him, mindful to get to the child's eye level. "Look, 'm not gonna threaten 'ya like Charlie. Something tells me that ain't gonna do much. But I can't tell ya how important it is that ya don't tell your father 'bout what happened."

"Maybe you should have thought of this before you kidnapped me."

Hickey chuckled darkly. That tone - he was definitely Haytham's son. "It ain't your dad that 'm worried 'bout. Ya see..." he paused for a moment, wetting his lips and handpicking his words with precision. "After you was captured, it was me that told your dad where you was. Problem is... good ole Charlie ain't know that."

The gears turning in his head, comprehension dawned on Ayden. "You are afraid of Charles."

"Like I said, I don't got a tribe lookin' out for me well-bein'. You tell your dad wot happened and he's gonna start askin' questions. The whole story would get out. Far as your dad knows, I only knew where you was at from some rumors. Didn't say I knew who you was at all."

Ayden glanced down at the leather clothes in his small hands, the man's hopeful gaze making him feel uncomfortable. "It does not matter. I am going back to the valley."

Hickey lifted a brow at this. "Your dad know 'bout this?"

"No. But if he works with Charles and... and..." the child paused, his mind attempting to find the right words in English. If only the Templar spoke his Mohawk tongue, the conversation would go so much easier. "I cannot stay here if he is friends with that man."

Slowly nodding in understanding as he pushed himself up to his full height, Hickey glanced around the small confines of the bedroom. Tastefully decorated in muted tones of periwinkle blue and whites, it didn't look as though a boy of his tender age inhabited it. There were no toys, no mess of a child; but the boy called the bedroom his own for less than two days, and by the looks of it, wouldn't have the chance to litter the area with any personal effects. Glancing down at the lad, Hickey silently considered Ayden, taking in his hurt-twinged eyes and distraught features that looked so incredibly out of place on a child of his young years.

Running away. That was precisely what the boy was doing, Hickey mused. Perhaps the Indians weren't so different from the more civilized societies, despite Charles' insistence of their lowly stature. The hint of a small grin tempted to tug on the Irishman's mouth as he instinctively recalled his own brushes of running away in his youth, when he'd haughtily tell his sisters and mother he was destined for more and would escape their suffocating presences. He'd never tell his father - the drunken bastard probably wouldn't have cared an inch or, worse so, taken his brazen tongue as a sign of insubordination.

And it was drawing on those memories from his youth that Hickey grinned down at the boy, recalling his late mother's strange response when he was tried the runaway card.

"So thas all you gonna take then?" Hickey pointed at the Indian clothes. "Here. Lemme get a bag for ya. Ya gonna need more supplies."

Ayden blinked in a momentary stupor as he watched the Irishman open the small closet door and pull a small sack from the upper shelving. "Supplies?"

Hickey tossed the bag on the bed. "Aye, supplies. Your valley is 'bout sixteen hours on horseback from Boston. You can probably double that with ya short legs. So... ya looking over a day of travelin'."

The child furrowed his brows. "Then I will get a horse."

"From where? Boston?"

"I will find one!" the boy snapped impatiently.

The Templar nodded, feigning a look of contemplation. "A'right well then ya need a bit 'o money anyways, to pay for food and a horse."

"Money... where do I get that?"

Hickey shrugged as he sat down on the bed, the soft comforter shifting at his added weight. "Hell, thas a question I've been tryin' to answer for years." He chuckled softly to himself, though considering the dismal look on the boy's face, the humor was lost on him. "So lets see 'ere... ya gonna take them clothes and wot else?"

Ayden blinked, glancing down again at the Native attire in his hands. "Um... I do not have anything else."

"Well, thas not gonna tide well for ya. Ain't got no money, no horse, no food... Ya sure ya even know how to get back to your village?"

The truth smacked into Ayden like a harsh rocky surface, his desolate and grim situation settling harshly in his already trounced mind. Wallowing in his defeat, the child dramatically dropped the clothes to the ground and trudged over to his bed, plopping himself beside Hickey. Though a boy not even five years, he looked seasons older with his head propped into his small hands elevated by his elbows resting on his bent knees. "But I cannot stay here. My father is friends with Charles!"

"I ain't gonna convince ya to stay. Don't mean no lick of difference to me," the Irishman replied brashly, earning him a pair of inquisitive eyes to snap to him. "But I can tell ya this: I've known your dad 'bout as long as ya been alive. 'E's a bit too self righteous and proper for my cup 'o tea, but he's a good man. And Charlie... he's too caught up in his bloody future in the colonies to care. William... 'e's like me - don't buy into the fairy tales of the Order." He paused, snorting a bit at the irony. "You'd like 'im - I think he prefers the company of your kind over his own these days. And then there's Benjamin... I ain't know much 'bout him. Kinda keeps to himself, that bloke."

Ayden wet his lips, his young mind trying to wrap around the English words. "And what about you?"

Hickey lifted a brow. "Wot 'bout me? 'M a simple man. I ain't looking for much - I go where there's money to be had and whoever has the deepest coin purse."

"Is that why you told my father where I was?"

The Irishman paused instantly, the answer to the youth's question so easy and straight forward, yet he couldn't force the truth to spew out of his mouth. No - that was the earnest answer; as fate would have it, he'd earned nothing other than another secret to toss into his ever growing closet of hidden truths, to be tucked away into the depths of his identify and covered with his perfected snide demeanor. A role he delivered with unsurpassed flawlessness, his impeccable maintenance of his demeanor went unquestioned by his brothers. But for the child before him... he was granted a miniscule chance to offer a paltry insight to his true nature, his true identity.

But he let the chance slip by, maybe due to his own questioning of his true being.

Shrugging, Hickey stood from the bed. "Somethin' like that. So about ya leaving... need any help tossin' ya things out the window for an escape?"

Ayden glanced down at his small feet, a frown dancing on his features. "I am not going to leave. I will stay." He blinked for a few moments, his small chest rising and falling at his damning decision. "And I will not tell my father."

Reaching the bedroom door, the Irishman glanced over the boy, taking in his downcast eyes and frowning face. After only knowing Haytham for a handful of years, he passed the Grand Master off a man married to his work, to his precious Order; never had he assumed the man capable of opening his seasoned and hardened heart to the likes of a woman and raise a child. The colonies were lurking with danger and incredible uncertainty, the mixture a vile environment to raise a family in. And as he eyed the boy sitting so innocently on the bed, his short legs dangling off the side of the bed, Hickey was at a marvel for his leader's new found family member... his newly discovered son - the heir to their Order.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks again for the awesome reviews! I get so giddy reading them! **

**Someone asked what is Ayden's native dialect. Its called Kanien'kéha, or Mohawk, and is currently spoken by approximately 2,700-3,000 people in the US. Due to the location of their specific tribe, his dialect within the language would be considered eastern Kanien'kéha. I had to do quite a bit of research to find resources pertaining to this language to bring into this story. Please private message me if you're interested in these resources. **

**Happy reading!**

* * *

A dull sunlight trickled into the quiet bedroom on the second story of the regal estate in Boston, the normally stringent rays faded to the sleeping inhabitant from the double panned window and sheer white drapes. But the small deterrences did little to subdue the sun's attempt, the cheerful rays not lessening in their plight. Mixed with the harmonious ballad of the morning birds nesting in the oak tree right outside the bedroom window, the morning in the colonial town was beginning with a harboring sense of tranquility and placidness.

But the melodic duet of the blithe sun and happy birds was ill-received by the fifteen year old boy attempting to slumber in the bed.

Releasing a moan mixed with a sigh, his eyes still closed, Ayden flipped over on his side, pulling the sheets and comforter up to his shoulders. Shifting his head against the plush pillow in an attempt to find peace and comfort in his forcibly new sleeping position, he waited for the thick veil of fatigue to lull him back asleep. But that was wishful thinking on his part. While he escaped the brilliant sunlight that basked on his face by turning his back to the window, the damn birds refused to quell their overly cheerful songs, their little voices carrying through the spring air with ease.

Eyes snapping open, the teen flipped around again on his back and brandished a hateful glare at the window, though he knew the bird didn't see it. Even if they did, they wouldn't have cared. Blinking as the tendrils of sleep gingerly receded back from his mind, leaving residual frustration at being roused from his sleep, Ayden blinked at the window, at the incredible sunlight outside. Perhaps the weather was a foreboding prophecy of good tidings for his important day: after years of pining over books at his prestigious school in Boston, learning Latin and the finer subjects of classical arithmetic, he'd finally reached an age to apply for admission to college. And after several grueling, long months of hearing nothing, he received an invitation to meet with the headmaster at Harvard College in his current city of Boston.

Over the years his mother pushed him academically, challenging his thoughts on concepts when his instructors and books didn't. And while his mother ensured he still visited the village in the Valley at every opportunity, he found his time there diminishing as he aged and his trainings with his father increased. Where his mother ensured his mental, academia studies were well-honed, his father's attention to his physical trainings wasn't far behind. By the ripe age of twelve years old, he was proficient in a dagger, sword and hidden blade, though he still struggled at besting his father. The other Templars, though, he'd push their limits, often times achieving victory in a match. And as he progressed into his teenage years, his body responded and filled out with the intense trainings and harsh endurance regimes. Though his build was still significantly leaner than his father's, his muscles were toned. He'd learned of his father's Order, though never officially initiated yet, and partook in assisting when he was able to. Strangely his father preferred to keep him at an arm's length of the Order, though didn't hesitate in his callous physical trainings.

Rolling over towards his nightstand, Ayden pushed the blankets from him. His parents were likely already gone for the day; his mother was visiting with some neighbor wives and his father had a work-related meeting. Grabbing at the small German clock his father gave him as a birthday present a year ago, the teen flipped open the brushed golden front, and glanced at the time.

His heart turning to ice, Ayden blinked incredulously at the placement of the small metal hands. 9:34. No... it couldn't be right. He set the damn alarm in the mechanism to wake him at 7am. A cold dread consumed his body, his thoughts going numb at the sheer fact that loomed overhead. It was 9:34... his meeting at Harvard was in less than half an hour.

Jolting out of bed with impressive speeds, Ayden rushed to his clothes bureau and ripped the drawers open, his hands flying through the various articles of clothing. He grabbed at a pair of cream colored knee-length breeches and a brown leather belt. Hastily opening a new drawer, he briskly retrieved an off-white loose shirt and forest green waistcoat. Fingers moving quickly, he discarded his dirtied breeches he slept in and quickly exchanged them for the new linen trousers, followed by exchanging his undershirts, and rapidly tucking the shirt into his waistband of the pants. Tugging the linen waistcoat on, his fingers completed the brass buttons with swiftness. He rushed over to his closet, throwing the door open and grabbing for his knee-high riding boots and brown coat, pulling on the new articles of clothing. Time was of the essence, so he skimped over ensuring his appearance was stately. The bath he had hoped to take that morning wouldn't be happening, and he was resolved to simply splashing some water on his face from the porcelain basin in his bedroom and scrubbing his skin with a washcloth. Grabbing the dagger that rested beneath his pillow - a lesson instilled in him by his father at an early age - he tucked the weapon beneath his jacket and into his waistband. Though he was dressed in the likes of a gentry colonists, he still harbored reminders of his Native heritage. He pulled at the necklace that hung on his neck, released the pendants from the confines of his shirt. Two pendants bounced out; one a jagged arrowhead while the other a smooth onyx stone with etched runes. Once he was somewhat satisfied with his image, he rushed out of his bedroom, one hand running his digits through his black hair that stopped at the nape of his neck, his fingers working through the knots. Pulling the half his hair up, he secured the top portion with a red ribbon.

Flying down the stairs in the estate, the rest of the house serenely quiet, Ayden didn't bother stopping off at the kitchen to grab a bite to eat. The hour was dwindling fast, and he knew coursing through the bustling streets of Boston to travel to the other side of the colonial city was a feat in its own right.

Emerging from the house, the teen silently loathed the cheerful, sunny day; it mocked him and his trounced demeanor. But he didn't pay it any heed, quickly rushing down the cobblestone walkway. He didn't even bother opening the picket fence gate, instead maintained his brisk speed and hopped the fence; an action that would've resulted in a debasing lecture from his mother, had she seen him.

"Oiy! Ayden!"

Already running down the road lined with his neighbors' estates, the Native teen stopped at the familiar voice, his head snapping to the side. "Oliver! I-I do not have time to talk."

A blonde youth in his late teens - Ayden's closest friend in the colonial town - stood grinning in the front yard of their mutual friend, Emmett. The other young man, Emmett, lifted a dark sculpted brow as the Native huffed and puffed, taking in his panicked features and edgy demeanor. "Aren't you suppose to be at Harvard today?"

Instead of responding to the boys, either out of fear for further ridiculing or the unmistakable fact that he was sure to be late, Ayden shook his head darkly and turned away from them, already assuming a paced jog. In the distance he heard their despicable laughter, doubtlessly at his expense. And just for good measure, Oliver was sure to make a final yell of: "Good luck!"

Of course they'd poke fun at him, the Indian teen mused darkly. Had he been in their position, he would've done the same. But that was their lighthearted relationship, their knack at finding trouble (or trouble finding them, as they liked to put it) and later finding humor out of the once dire situations. Eleven years ago when he first met his three closet friends - Oliver, Emmett, and Tommy - he'd been steadfast at accepting their interest in forging a friendship. And it wasn't until one late afternoon when they'd asked him to join in their game of make believe did he finally relent to their wishes. Nothing more than innocent children's play, the youths favored a game of saving the damsel in distress - the role going to Oliver's younger sister, Grace - from the Indian. At first Ayden was more comfortable overseeing the game than actually taking part, giving enough critiques to justify an overhaul for the role of the Indian. Eventually, however, he found their interpretation utterly pitifully, even down to the ridiculous bathrobe and smeared dirt used to make Tommy's skin darker. Donning himself in his Native attire, Ayden brought a sense of incredible authenticity to the game.

But what once started as fun make-believe soon morphed into the serious consequences of the real world. As the boys progressed and matured, their friendship strengthening with the years, they began to notice the incredible prejudice their Native friend was often subject too. Their once joyous game of stressing Ayden's ethnic difference was suddenly lackluster, and eventually even revolting.

Reaching the chipper and lively metropolis of inner city Boston, Ayden's heart sunk as his running was forcibly stopped. A thick throng of rowdy colonists blocked a street, and no matter how much he tried to strain his neck to gain a view of what the cause was, he couldn't see beyond the incredible pool of men and woman. Glancing about himself, the colonists around him were just as edgy to gain access to the roads and carry out their business. The merchants yelled obscenities from behind the security of their vender cards, while woman waiting to visit the market held their coin purses closer to their bosoms in the close quarters.

Spotting a duo of Redcoats standing beside a building, their offset positioning from the colonists nothing short of strategic planning, Ayden grudgingly moved over to them. His father's teachings and harsh conditionings take precedent in his body and mind, he so naturally snaked a hand beneath his jacket to the handle of his dagger.

"Excuse me," the teen began politely, though he knew such attempts wouldn't matter. In the midst of a conversation, the Redcoats didn't even acknowledge him. Pursing his lips together for a fleeting moment, his already low threshold of patience lessening, Ayden cleared his throat loudly. "Excuse me."

Pausing in their conversation, the Redcoats turned to him, each of them racking their examining gazes over the teen's entire body, not bothering to mask the looks of disgust and distaste. Their eyes lingered on the Native necklaces that rested freely for prying eyes, the pendants only confirming and reinforcing their repulsion for his heritage.

"What is it, boy?" one of the Redcoats asked harshly, brandishing his musket and bayonet forward.

"What is happening up there?" Ayden asked as he gestured to the crowd, forcing his voice to remain calm and level.

"Some riot out by the harbor. People find a spectacle out of anything, I tell ya."

"Well, when will this road be open? I need to get through!"

The Redcoat snickered. "You hear that, the half-breed needs us to open the road for him."

The other Redcoat joined in the debasing chuckle, the sound grating against Ayden's nerves and only enticing him to slice both of their necks open. He felt fairly confident in his ability to end their lives with such speed that he wouldn't attract attention. Shaking his head dejectedly, the teen turned away from the disgusting excuse for soldiers. Corrupt and vile, he'd had enough poor interactions with the British infantry, their demeaning comments and open prejudice against him leaving a sour taste in his mouth one to many times.

But the hour was growing late - he needed to get to Harvard immediately.

Walking briskly away from the still snickering Redcoats and in the opposite direction from the bustling crowd, Ayden took a hasty turn down a darkened alley way. Filled with varmint and trash undoubtedly crawling with disease, he didn't intend on staying in the vile area for long. No... if he couldn't travel across the city through the standard means of the crowded streets, he would forge his own path.

Though if his father were to catch wind of it, he would get the lashing of a lifetime.

Jumping on an overturned wagon, the teen continued to use his forward momentum and leapt up to the brick building, his hands already outstretched. His digits wrapped around the outside ledge of a window sill from the second floor, and he easily hoisted himself up, his upper torso muscles clenching at the action. But climbing and throwing his body through the air in such a feat was nearly second nature to him. He was standing on the sill for merely a few seconds before he jumped to the side and up, grabbing hold of a clothes line that hung between the two close buildings. Shimmying himself over to the building, the teen grabbed the ledge and pulled himself up on the roof top.

He didn't care where he was - either the dense canopies of the woods in the Valley or the crowded colonial city - but the sheer view from above the world would forever be a rush of adrenaline.

But the majestic view was not without its short-comings. His trained eyes immediately finding the redcoats stationed on the roof tops, their sharpened bayonets at the ready, Ayden grabbed at his dagger. The lecturing tone of his father's voice echoed in his mind, expressing his loathing when the teen would scour the roof tops and often gain the negative attention of the Redcoats. And if given ample time to bother the British soldiers, he would've had a bit of fun. But more pressing matters hung on his mind. Jumping from one roof top to the next, his leaps large and precise to ensure he wouldn't make a misstep, Ayden was sure to keep out of the unruly gaze of the Redcoats. Not that they were truly looking for him; they seemed more interested in their meaningless conversation than actually carrying through with their duty.

Just as he was about to make a jump, an unnerving stare made him momentarily pause, the feeling of a gaze fastened on him making his hair stand up.

Glancing to his side, Ayden's inquisitive brown eyes met cold, calculating ones from a figure standing a good distance away on a roof top adjacent to the one he stood on. A young black man no older than mid 20s, his chilling gaze didn't move from teen as they locked eyes, though the Native wasn't quite ready to admit defeat in the bizarre silent exchange. He took in as much details of the man that he could; the overgrown scruff around his face, the scar that ran the length of his right cheek, and the way he held himself in an egotistical, fight-ready stance.

And just as he was about to jump over towards the disconcerting man, the dreadful chime of the church bells rang, signaling the turn of the hour to 10 o'clock; just when Ayden was due for his meeting at Harvard.

Sending one long last glance at the unmoving figure, Ayden abandoned his post and continued jumping from rooftop to rooftop, his mind pushing away all thoughts of the bizarre exchange and instead focusing on his lateness to the college he needed to impress.

* * *

"Thank you for seeing me. I-I apologize for my lateness... it is not a trait that is normal of me."

The president waved a beefy hand in the air, the exquisite rings on his chunky fingers glistening as the sun's rays hit them. Sitting behind a stained mahogany desk, the stout man looked every bit the opposite of the young Native boy that sat opposite of him; a white wig sat on top his head, the groomed locks tucked below a tricorn hat. While the boy wore similar English colonial attire, he lacked the heavy layers the Harvard College president wore. A long maroon coat covered the man's brown vest, both pieces adorned with polished brass buttons. Nestled on the chest pocket of the coat was the infamous emblem of the stately college; a college that Ayden longed to attend for years in hopes to bring education his maternal relatives and people.

But now that he was finally given the rare opportunity to impress the president and gain entrance, he found the once billowing excitement replaced with nerve-racking anxiety. He could face hand to hand combat against his father, scale trees and buildings like noneother... but putting on the face of his English heritage in hopes of making a good impression was increasingly difficult. Regardless of being raised for the greater portion of his life in Boston, he still felt a preference and comfort when reverting to his Native heritage and people. Perhaps the first four years of his life were truly that remarkable, or maybe the frequent visits to his mother's village harbored a sense of familiarity.

Or maybe because his Native relatives and people could mostly look past his mixture of Native and English blood.

"Oh, no worries at all, my dear lad," the president, Samuel Locke, exclaimed, and glanced down at the open ledger and papers strewn on his desk. "Now let's see here... I have your date of birth as September 25th, 1756."

"Yes, sir."

"Full name is..." the president paused, his beady eyes narrowing on a particular point on a paper. "Ray-ton... ray-ton..."

"Ra-doon-ha-gay-doon." The Englishman glanced up at him, his stormy gray eyes clouded with uncertainty. Ayden suppressed a sigh. At least the man tried; that was more than what others typically did. "I also wrote 'Ayden' as my alias - it is what I'm normally called."

"Yes, well, Ayden Kenway does roll off the tongue a bit easier, hm?"

_Maybe for you_. But the teen was quick to keep his snide remarks to himself; he imagined his lateness already tainted his impression to the president, he didn't need anymore reason to be rejected from the esteemed school.

"It is rather exciting to see an Indian name on the roster for prospective students. I pray that despite our efforts to educate the Natives, they've been steadfast at accepting our offers."

Maybe it was because he was the only Native in the room, but Ayden felt as though the comment - which was likely lighthearted in nature - was directed at him. Where he'd normally get irked for the presumptious ignorance and assumption that he somehow was a spokesperson for his entire people, he capitalized on the small opportunity the man presented; his father would be proud.

Squaring his shoulders as best as he could and straightening to his full height, Ayden nodded. "The villages are weary of outsiders, especially Englishman. I can't...I can't speak for all Natives, but the village my mother is from does not allow colonists on the lands, even if good education is being offered. I am hoping to one day be able to return to the village and provide that education for them. Maybe even help in the relations between Colonists and the Natives."

The teen wasn't sure how he was expecting the president to react, but it most certainly wasn't what was displayed.

Leaning back skeptically in the leather-backed chair, his bushy brows furrowed together in uncertainty, Locke began to twist one of his rings. "So you wish to further your education at Harvard to provide assistance to the Natives?"

Ayden blinked, hastily trying to read the guarded man before him. A mental switch was hit in his subconscious, the teen regarding the president with less of his subtle diplomatic lessons and more of the 'hidden' lessons from his father. "Not just to the Natives. I wish to help the sides understand each other more - get rid of this rift between them. The Natives could learn much from the colonists... just as the colonists could learn much from them."

The man didn't look convinced. "You mean to pursue a profession as a sort of liason."

"I do not know what you want to call it... a liason, I suppose. It just seems there are not enough trained colonists trying to contact the villages."

"Mmm... yes, the attempts to purchase the lands have been foiled one to many times," the president silently muttered, his gaze darting down in deep contemplation and thought. "Oh Haytham... how smart of you; have the boy be trained to be a liason."

Ayden frowned deeply at the mention of his father's name. His attempts at maintaining a congenial and pleasant front was slipping. "My father had little say in my interest in attending Harvard. He was- " Suddenly breaking, the words no longer able to be formed in his utter surprise, Ayden eyed the ring the president once twisted. Free from the obscurring fingers, he was granted a perfect view of the piece of jewelry... as well as the recognizable emblem on the pristine gold ring. A short red cross rested on top of painted black enamel background; the symbol one he'd grown up seeing far to many times.

_Of course. How could I be so stupid?_

Releasing a frustrated sigh, the teen narrowed his accusing gaze on the president. "Non nobis Domine, non nobis..."

"Sed Nomini Tuo da Gloriam," the president completed the Latin motto for the Templar Order with a grin.

Another Templar. Another set-up by his father. "Did you even look at my academics or application for admission, or did you just see my father's name and usher me in?"

The president seemed to sense the billowing frustration from the teen. Furrowing his brows quickly, he made an act of hastily flipping through the pages before him. "Oh no, of course I looked at your marks, my dear boy. And I must say I was rather impressed. Hm... yes... completed seven years of Latin, extensive study in philosophy and literature... you are the epitimy of Harvard alumni."

Ayden lifted a daring brow. "So being the son of the Grand Master had no influence in this meeting?"

"Well, Benjamin Church put in a good word for you - he did attend this institution for medicine, you know."

Church... one of his father's associates that the teen had grown to despise. Then again, there were few amongst his most 'trusted' circle that he didn't loath. Benjamin Church, though he carried himself in a respectable manner, was a snake - but no matter how much he tried to convince his father, the Grand Master kept the physician's company. Keeping himself distanced from the Order in many ways, Ayden often questioned the man's loyalty. Thomas Hickey wasn't so dissimilar with his disconnections of the Order, but Ayden had grown up silently knowing and listening to Hickey's often bemusement regarding their mantra. The Irishman kept himself hidden in layers of enigmas, and perhaps only on a few special occasions had Ayden the opportunity to peel back some of those thick layers and catch a seemingly quick glance at the man's true identity. William Johnson wasn't so different either, though the teen found himself significantly more at ease around him than other Templars. The man harboring an unspoken fondness for the Iroquois, the teen savored the few casual conversations he had with Johnson. Besides his mother, William was the only one who was fluent in his Native tongue, though his father attempted to speak a few select words and phrases. As irony would have it, the worst of his father's 'brothers' - soon to be his own 'brothers', he assumed - was Charles Lee. Conniving and deceitful, Lee was as disgusting as he was when Ayden first met him eleven years ago, when the man assaulted and captured him. Though the capture did result in him connecting with his father and his parent's eventual marriage, he couldn't shake the disdain he harbored for the man. The death threat Lee made to him so many years ago after his rescue by his father - a threat that should he attempt to point the finger for his capture at the Templars, Lee would end his life - had not lessened it's hatred effect despite the years that had rolled by.

He was sure Lee hated him, too; regardless that he was the supposed 'heir' to the Order.

"Perhaps we should discuss what discipline you intend to study when - If!...if you are accepted here."

For a fleeting, brief moment Ayden wondered why a Templar would be left to oversee an academic institution, but considering the man's incredible transparency and poor ability to lie, the reasoning was rather obvious.

Apparently he was going to Harvard College.

* * *

"Father? _Ista_?"

Reaching the top of the stairs in his home, Ayden glanced up and down the corridor, his eyes dancing over the bedroom doors. The master at the end of the hall was shut, as it normally was, while the other two bedroom doors were left open. Maybe it was from his time in the village but he never found comfort in remaining cut off from his parents with keeping his door shut. Sure, he tended to prefer privacy for certain occasions, but he rather relished when he was close to his mother and father.

The sound of papers rustling drawing his attention immediately, Ayden snapped his head towards the partially closed study door at the end of the hall. His father's haven and a place that he kept a personal mantra to stay away from, the teen narrowed his gaze on the obscuring door. "Father?"

Only silence responded him.

Pulling his dagger from its concealed place on his belt, the young Native silently inched closer to the study. The room was perhaps the only place in his home that he grew to detest. Whenever his father was in the study, fervently working on tasks related to the Order, Ayden was mindful to steer clear of it. Haytham Kenway was a man of two personalities: his father and the Grand Master, and the damned study seemed to be the portal that forced his shift to the latter.

Readying himself for a potential assailant on the opposite side of the door, Ayden slowly pushed the door open, his limbs and dagger ready to spring into action on a moments notice.

"Ayden?"

Dealing with an intruder would have been better than what really met his gaze.

"Hello, Mr. Church," the teen replied politely yet tensely as he hastily shoved the dagger back into his waistband, though the action didn't go unnoticed by the three men in the study, especially one.

"Expecting a brawl, did we?"

Standing in the doorway awkwardly, Ayden pursed his lips at Charles Lee's snide remark. The three men - Lee, Johnson, and Church - sat around the small square table in the middle of the study, a mess of scattered papers and maps covering the tabletop. Moving his gaze from the three Templars, the teen darted his watchful eyes over the rest of the room in search of his parent. But his searching was in vain.

"You heard me calling yet you did not answer," Ayden snapped back at Charles. "What am I suppose to think other than someone who _shouldn't_ be here? You're lucky I didn't kill first and ask questions later."

The older man balled his hand into a fist. "I'd like to see you try, boy."

Taking a challenging step forward and opening his mouth at the blatant invitation for a test of his strength, Ayden wasn't given the chance as William was suddenly in front of him. The man must have sensed their already turmoil relations take a turn for the worst, the sheer notion of their leader's son and second in command dueling each other.

"_Tha'tesato:tat_," (**Behave**) William said quietly in the boy's Native tongue, his frequent use of the language evident in his near perfect articulation of the otherwise trying words. Glancing down in to the teen's hardened face, the Englishman silently pondered how he'd come to adopt a mediation role between the two bickering individuals. Over the past decade, he'd noticed himself come to the boy's aid more and more, his siding with him gaining not only the teen's trust but also Haytham's silent approval. While the positive attention from his leader was of course a feat in its own right, it wasn't a goal that he strived to achieve through his befriending of the half-breed child. His affinity with the Iroquois couldn't be disputed, nor his affection that he'd covertly acquired over the years.

"_Skennenko_," (**fine**) Ayden replied back, blinking up at William as he gingerly moved back to the table, apparently content at dissolving the potential of an altercation. While the Mohawk words soothed down his mounting anger, it only served to dissipate his longing to throw a punch at the damned man his father called his closest friend; but it did little to derail his soured attitude. "Is my father here, or did you take it upon yourself to break into my home?"

Charles, apparently, wasn't backing down either. "Watch that mouth of yours, boy."

"You're father should be back soon," Benjamin replied curtly, darting his gaze between Charles and the teen, hoping the hidden intent would divert their clashing attitudes. Not that he didn't care to watch the two duke it out, but more pressing matters required their attention. And the fact remained that Haytham would be returning to the estate very soon. But Benjamin was no fool; he knew of the boy's eventual fate and inheritance, of the talks regarding his formal intiations into the Order. The teen's strength was already incredible, his training amongst his maternal side nicely accenting the physical regimes from his father. "Perhaps you'd like to wait for your father here." The physician paused and glanced down at the ledger the teen held. "Unless you have more pressing matters."

"Hm? Oh." Ayden spared a quick look at the folder in his grasp, the official papers from Harvard explaining his acceptance and congratuations. He _could _use it as a means of an excuse to slip away from the damned study and suffocating company, but where could he retreat to? His bedroom perhaps; he did have paperwork to complete for Harvard. But his mind was buzzing with a clashing of excitement and frustration at his father for the terms of his acceptance to the prestigious school. Maybe he should have listened to the elder Kenway and traveled across the Atlantic to attend Cambridge in London. At least then he would've been free of the Colonial rite.

Bringing himself back to the present, Ayden glanced at the fourth, vacant chair at the table - the olive branch. Gingerly he sat down, placing the ledger on the table top, and glanced at the scattered papers and maps before him. There were crudely drawn maps of northern New Hampshire, the various illustrations showing the placement of the mountain ranges. "The _Kenra:ken kaien'thon_." Feeling the stares from the Templars, the teen glanced at the expectant faces. "Erm... it means, 'White fields'. It is what the Natives call those mountains."

"Yes, well, in a civilized language they're referred to as the White Mountains," Charles replied, releasing an exasperated sigh. "Perhaps you would do well to curb your curiosity before it gets the better of you."

The teen ignored the snide comment. "What are you doing there? Those mountains are at least a two day journey from here."

William lifted a brow as he took his seat at the table. "You're familiar with the region?"

"Not that well," Ayden admitted. "When I was a child, my village offered help to the tribes that lived in the foothills of the _Kenra_- um, White Mountains. They were not Mohawk... and were very... different from my people."

"The Tuscarora?"

The boy nodded at William before sparing an inquisitive glance at Charles. Leaned back in his chair, the permanent scowl still painted on his face, the man met his gaze with unspoken disdain, but Ayden ignored him. "They're known for their farming on the rich soil in the foothills... or at least they were known for that, before the settlers forced them from the land and enslaved their people."

Charles narrowed his gaze on the adolescent. Perhaps the boy was worth something. "We need access to a passe in the mountain to reach a peak but have run into these savages everytime. They refuse to allow us passage."

"Count your blessings that you were even allowed to walk away with your head still on your shoulders," Ayden snapped back.

William shot Charles a warning glare. "Ayden, do you know anything about the Tuscarora? It's important that we get through this passe, as our only other alternative route up is through a wall of rubble and rocks."

"What do you seek at the top?"

The room went silent for a beat, the three Templars sharing looks of uncertainty with each other. "What lays at the top is none of your concern," Benjamin replied, receiving a look of distrust from the youth. "We don't wish to use force on these people, but they have refused to even discuss allowing us passage. I can assure you that our intentions have little to do with their lands - we have no desire to purchase it."

"I've tried to communicate with them," William chimed in, hoping to offset the guarded look that lingered in the Native's gaze. "Even though I know their language, they won't hear a word of what I have to say."

"Doesn't surprise me. They have been crossed far to many times to extend their trust to Colonists."

"What about you?" William asked curiously, hoping fervently that he wasn't overstepping what he thought was trust in their relationship. "Would they listen to you?"

Ayden unexpectantly darted his gaze down to the table in a poor effort to hide his embarrassment. "No, even my skin is too light for them. When I was young and first met them, they refused to allow children my age to be around me. As I said, I did not get to know them well, other than learn of their anger for the settlers." He paused for a brief moment, the memories of so long ago coming forth in his mind. "I do not remember much about them, other than that they were retreating to the mountains for safety. The Elders kept me isolated from them... they made their hatred for my English blood well known."

Another silence swept over the room, this one more deafening than the last. Prejudice against the Natives ran deep in the bustling city of Boston, and the Templars knew all to well the crude names their Grand Master's son was subject too. But such prejudice, it seemed, wasn't isolated to the more civilized settlements.

"Would you be willing to try to- "

"Ayden."

The strong, accented voice interrupting William, the teen snapped his head up at the familiar yet authoritative voice. His surprised chestnut eyes mets firm steel ones; though the hues differed, the intensity was strangely familiar. "Father. I was... searching for you."

Moving his examining stare over his son, Haytham frowned at the scene before him. His three brothers sat where he left them only moments before, but his spot was filled with the teen; an eerie foreboding washed over the Englishman. Someday he hoped - nay, he _knew_ - that his son would inherit his role as Grand Master when the time would come, but at his tender adolescent age, he shuddered at the thought of shoving such roles onto the boy. Though he hadn't broken the news to his brothers or his son yet, Haytham was already contemplating the appropriate time to formally initiate the boy into the Order. His years of physical and mental training were already under his belt, Ayden had but a few more years until he would be sculpted to perfection.

Ziio would have an absolute fit if she knew Ayden was sitting amongst them in a Templar meeting. And considering the nervous looks on two of his associates' faces, he figured they harbored similar worries of being caught trying to covertly recruit his son to do their bidding. But truly, he expected no less; they were trained to capitalize and exploit an opportunity if given the chance.

Snapping his eyes over the map and the Templars faces, he quickly made the connection for the part of the conversation he overheard. "Ayden isn't to step foot in that passe, am I clear?"

While William and Benjamin looked away at the chastise, Charles wasn't prepared to allow the opportunity slip by. "Sir. This could be our chance to scale the mountain and find the Assassin!" The teen narrowed his gaze; so that's what they were after. It was a manhunt. "Perhaps with the right attire on him, he could pass off as - "

"My answer is no, Lee!" Haytham bellowed.

"He looks far more like one of their kind than any of us!"

"The danger of him - "

"He is no longer a child, Haytham!" The room went eerie quiet, the only sound coming from the rough breathing of the angered men. But if glares spoke words, the room would be enveloped in furious screams. "He is not a child," Charles repeated, though instead of yelling, his voice adopted a dangerously low tenor. "We have watched him grow and train. Hell, you've left him in each of our care for his trainings at some point in his life. Sheltering him from the reality of the world is only crippling him, Haytham."

The Grand Master slowly closed the gap between the now standing men, his son silently watching. "Those Natives are not like his people." He paused, allowing his dampened anger to be guided by his memories of discussing the situation with his wife. "I won't lie to you - I had a similar idea to send Ayden to speak with the Tuscarora. But that was before I learned more about them and their history with Ayden's... mixed blood." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the adolescent turn away, no doubt trying to hide his humiliation with the memories. "Half breeds, to them, are abominations that have no place in this world, let alone their lands. The thought of their blood mixing with a white mans' is apparently revolting enough for them to end the blood line."

William blinked hard. These behaviors - undoubtedly barbaric - would only serve as new material for Charles' hatred for the Natives - and the mediator with the Iroquois would be hardpressed to defend them. "But he's still half Native. Surely they can't deny him that."

"This is second hand knowledge," Charles countered. "We won't know the truth until we try."

Haytham glared at his friend. "And risk my son's life? I've obviously mistaken your resourcefulness if you're truly that desperate."

The insult didn't tide well with the man, his face turning a light shade of red. "Have you become so placcid in your role that you'll walk away from a perfect opportunity?! That you'll just LET an Assassin walk right by us?"

"And this Assassin - what do you propose Ayden does _if_ he's granted passage up the peak, hm? Take on a seasoned Assassin when he's simply a boy?"

"I'll do it."

The dark voice full of conviction and determination drew all their attention to the lone figure that migrated towards the door. Leaning against the door frame, his face somber and serious, Ayden narrowed his eyes on his father. "I will manage to get the Tuscarora's allowance to pass. I will find this Assassin, too."

The air felt stagnant and foul, the emotion that circulated it as suffocating and distasteful. A moment that Haytham used to only dream about - when his son would finally rise up to his full potential in the Order - was laying so graciously at his feet. And yet, he hated it. He hated thinking of sending the adolescent head first into such a dire situation; a situation that could surely end in his ultimate peril. The boy was supposed to become educated at the most esteemed and prestigious college in the Colonies - not thrust into the spindles of warfare between the Templars and the dwindling Assassins. At least, not yet.

"Well, that leads to another dilemma," Benjamin began, looking down at the maps and parchment. "We've only got word that the Assassin is _somewhere_ near this," he pointed at a spot on the map, "peak. How we intend on finding him is beyond me. I doubt those savages will spill information on him; he obviously got up there somehow, Lord only knows how he got past the Natives."

Ayden pushed himself off wall and glanced at the map in question. The land largely unchartered, he could only fathom the imperfections and mistakes the cartographers made when crudely illustrating it. "I know how to track," the teen replied somberly, thinking back to the first four years of his life and the summers he spent in his mother's quiet village; a place where he had a different name, different friends, and different clothing. "As long as this man has been traveling the forests, I should be able to pick up on his trail."

"No," Haytham stated obstinately, his domineering stare holding the boy's impassive one. "The Tuscarora will see right through your lie - you look too English, Ayden!"

"I will never understand this!" the teen exclaimed suddenly, throwing his hands up in the air. "I look too English for them, yet far too 'savage' for the Colonists!"

Haytham wiped a hand over his features. "We are not having this discussion."

"Then let me go! Charles is... he is right." Saying such words was more painful than when he received his nipple piercing at his coming of age ceremony in the village two years ago. "With some dirt or something, I could make my skin look darker."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then I'll do what I must."

"There's another option," Charles interjected, snapping his bored gaze between the bickering father and son. Truly, Haytham needed to simply let the boy stretch his legs, use his training; it would serve as the perfect rite of passage into their Order. "We could just...forcefully remove the Natives from the land. Dispose of any resistance in our path."

Ayden frowned. "It is violence from Colonialists that have made them the distrustful people that they are. Forcing them from their lands will only make them more hesitant to speak with Colonialists. "

"They would so much slice your neck right open if they had the chance, and yet you still defend them? How disgusting."

"Harming less armed people is cowardly and weak. But then again, you would all about that, wouldn't you?"

His lip curling angrily, Charles' vision went red with rage at the insolant youth. Lunging forward, he ignored his superior's yell of protest as he made to wrap his hands around the teen's neck. How dare the Native brat slur him with such profanity, especially before his brothers and Order. It was a blessing that he managed to not strangle the boy sooner, given the incredible disrespect he was shown by the supposed 'heir' to the Order. And yet, his fearless leader so conveniently turned a blind cheek, refusing to accept that his son would display such rudeness... display the true savage that he is.

Charles liked to think he was agile and swift, his immaculate career in the Order showcasing his mastery in combat when needed. And as such, he was incredibly amazed when his hands never quite made it to the teen's throat.

Moving in a blur of unsurpassed dexterity and speed, Ayden grabbed one of Charles' outstretched hands in one of his own, his digits wrapping around the man's thick wrist with callousness. Stepping to the side, he utilized the man's momentum to his advantage and allowed him to continue flying forward while he spun his arm around. Hearing the audible strain of the muscle and tendon, the teen pinned the arm behind the Colonialist's back and forced the man to slam into the opposite wall, all the while his other hand pulled out his dagger from his belt. His limps moved subconsciously, years of harsh conditioning and training driving his assault on the elder man. Giving a strong push on Charles' back, ignoring the pained groan from the man beneath his grasp, Ayden slid his dagger against the dewy flesh of the man's vulnerable neck.

"Ayden! Charles! That is enough!" Haytham bellowed, hurrying to his son's side. Glancing at Charles' pain-filled face, his eyes shut as uneven breaths shook his shoulders, he frowned at the teen. "What has gotten into you?!"

"I don't think we have to question the boy's ability to fend for himself."

Haytham threw Benjamin an angry look, the unforgiving stare immediately shutting him up.

"He tried to hit me first," Ayden exclaimed as he gingerly removed the sharpened blade from his neck and released the man's arm. "You expect me just to stand there and let him?"

Grabbing the teen's shoulder harshly, the elder Kenway forcefully pushed him towards the door; anything to separate the two. "I expect respect and decency from you."

"Respect is earned!" the boy countered, though he directed his heated words at Charles, who slowly turned around. "And that man has done nothing to earn my respect."

Charles gave a low chuckle, his digits massaging his throbbing arm. "What have I told you time and time again, William? We can provide education and clothing for these savages, but we just can't make them become civil."

Haytham expected the boy to thrash forward, and quickly caught the teen around his shoulders as he angrily attempted to lung for the man. "Say that to my face next time, you disgusting snake!"

Broader and taller than the adolescent, Haytham overpowered him - though not without a fight - and roughly pulled him back. "Charles! Enough! Must I chastise you like my teenaged son?!" He didn't wait for a response; in truth, he did really want to fathom what his testy second in command would retort with. While he loathed the debasing comments made about his son and wife and their Native blood, he had to pick his battles wisely with Charles, lest he wanted a more complicated matter on his hands.

Grabbing the boy and pushing him out into the hallway, throwing delicacy to the wind, Haytham glared down at the teen. Out of view from the Templars in the room, especially Charles, Ayden blinked up at his father, the burning fire of rage stubbornly fighting to die away. "I'm done pacifying this brazen attitude of yours, especially where my work is concerned!" The boy went to open his mouth, though the elder man wasn't willing to hear his words. Closing the gap between them, he gripped the youth's shoulder harder. "I couldn't care less what he said to you, but you show respect! You were raised better than this, Ratonhnhaké:ton."

His proper name. That immediately got his attention. And yet... the streak of stubbornness was strong.

"But he- "

"I'm done listening to you!" Haytham spun the teen around and pushed him hard, though the boy easily gained his footing. "Go to your bedroom. I will deal with you later."

The words were ominous, but the intent behind them were more so; Ayden knew what lay ahead for him.

Stalking down the hall, his head held high and proud, the teen angrily entered his bedroom and slammed the door with incredible ferocity, the hinges feeling the full effect of his rage. An evening that should've been spent celebrating his acceptance to Harvard -albeit not strictly from his academic performance - was instead devoted to undoubtedly receiving some form of discipline.

* * *

"Where is Ayden?"

"He's not hungry."

Ziio glanced down at the collops of rabbit, the delicately sliced meat coated in a champagne wine sauce with small shaved carrots on the side. The supper meal was rather good that afternoon, one that she prepared for the past few hours - her son would've enjoyed it. But she knew her husband's tone; she'd come to read him like a book by then. Just like predicting a storm, she knew his dismal moods from the good. "Did you ask him?"

"Hm?"

The woman glanced up at her spouse, taking in his distracted gaze. "Haytham." He blinked, his steel eyes coming back into focus. "Did you ask Ayden if he was hungry?"

"Yes, of course," he replied, picking up his forgotten fork and prodding a half eatten collop of meat. "He refuses to come down."

"You were arguing."

Leaning back in his high backed chair, Haytham glanced around the immaculate and pristine dining room, anything to catch his attention away from his wife's judging stare. Similar to the rest of the exquisite and posh estate, the formal dining room was faultless. A long birch table polished to perfection rested in the middle of the room with ten chairs pushed in around it; though only two were occupied. Not quite able to release his grasp on his English roots, Haytham adopted the furnishings popular in London, the shined golden chandelier with numerous lit candles showcasing his refined taste and wealth. Polished silverware and flawless bone china made up their place settings, accented with crystal glasses filled with dark wine. While Ziio's glass was also filled with the exquisite wine, he knew she wouldn't drink it; she never did. It'd become a sort of expected tradition, that he'd end up drinking her untouched beverage.

Despite her slow assimilation to the English lifestyle, his wife still held strong to many of her Native values and morals. But her attire was not one of them.

Snapping his gaze back to her, he took in her simple yet stunning features. Her midnight ebony hair was drawn back to a tight, low bun, while a few strands of stray hair ran down the sides of her face. Instead of the animal hides and leather attire she used to wear, she now was dressed in the familiar Colonial clothes. Her outer gown was a pale red that opened in the front, allowing a view of her cream colored petticoat beneath. The neckline was low cut but tasteful with frills of lace on the seams of the neckline. It was nothing short of a miracle that the proud Native woman did eventually forgo her people's attire, perhaps in part to ease their son's trouble identity of living in two worlds.

It didn't matter what she wore to Haytham - she took his breath away with merely a glance, just as she did the first time he set eyes on her so many years ago.

But he'd never admit that she looked absolutely captivating when angry.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Blinking at the cross tone, Haytham made a grab for his wine glass, his smirk hiding behind the strong alcohol that slid so easily down his throat. "Really, Ziio. If the boy desires to go without food, that's his prerogative. Perhaps a bit of starvation will finally kill his stubborn streak."

"Is that what I should have done to you years ago?" she countered crisply with a smirk

The Grand Master sent his wife a deadpanned look. "Oh, I'll admit my shortcomings but he's acquired this brazen attitude in recent years. Impatient, rebellious, complete disregard for his well-being, incredibly headstrong- "

"I am sorry, when did you stop describing our son and begin describing yourself?"

The man didn't look amused, but instead of sending his irked glare at his wife, he was mindful to divert the energy at the once succulent meal that rested before him. "Please - I'm not nearly that wretched. The boy is far too stubborn for his own good! It seems no amount of lectures or lashings will drill it out of him." But if he was hoping for assistance from his spouse, he knew he on his own in such a parenting department; Ziio's blank, judgmental stare didn't lessen. "Did you hear of his acceptance to Harvard?"

Lifting a brow at Haytham's incredibly transparent and rather pathetic attempt to side step an argument, Ziio silently fumed at the colonist. Her love for him indisputable, she couldn't negate they trekked on delicate subjects along the years, their differing heritages contrasting strongly in more ways than one. They both came to the agreement that Ayden was to be raised in both Boston and the Valley, though his dominate residence would of course be in the English colony. Naturally uncertain to allow her son to be raised amongst the fast-paced colonists, she passed off such insecurities as nothing short than her own personal accounts of the Englishmen; people her son would soon assimilate with. And as the years rolled on and Ayden found increasing comfort with his Boston friends and elite school, she shoved her alarmed thoughts aside, not willing to trounce his potential success in life by her paltry and often selfish ideations of returning to the village.

It was a decision she made; a choice she felt was best for him.

But it wasn't without its downfalls - the people of Boston were harsher, especially to her people. And though she dressed the part of a gentry, wealthy woman in their society, her luxurious and costly attire could only supplement so much. Her dark skin, ebony hair, and distinguishable features set her profoundly apart. However, like her son, Ziio managed to forge friendships with the other gentry wives in the colonial city. That was a learning experience in its own right. The art of planning extravagant parties and arranging the high tea with the fellow elite wives to discuss the topic of books was more exhausting than hunting in the Valley.

Similar to her husband and son, Ziio was just as stubborn and headstrong, especially when shoved into a corner - defeat was not an option she accepted readily.

Bringing herself back to the present, she blinked at the dark crimson wine in her glass, no doubt a priceless import from Europe. Allowing her husband's words to sink in, she smiled at their intent. "His worrying was a waste - I knew he would be allowed admission."

Haytham made a reach for his wife's untouched wine. "We _all_ knew he would be accepted. Lord knows he poured himself over those books enough." Taking a generous swig out of the glass, the Grand Master ignored the judgmental look from the woman. "His training isn't to stop just because of his admission. Especially with the pain in the arse Assassins gallivanting about the city as though they own it."

Ziio narrowed her gaze. "We agreed he would not become involved in your work until he finished schooling."

"I'm not talking of initiation," Haytham crispy countered. The last thing he needed was getting into the infamous brawl with her about their son's future in the Order. "These are trainings for mere survival, Ziio. Perhaps you'd be more content if he remained untrained and left to the mercy of the Assassins. Heavens knows they're known for their grand hospitality..."

"He should have no reason to meet one of these Assassins," she shot back. Leaning back in her chair, the stiff backing not offering the least amount of soothing to her strained nerves, she considered her husband with a skeptical, calculating look. "Promise me, Haytham, that he will not have any part in your work. Promise me."

The wine had lost its vigor, either from his palate becoming accustomed or the ill-taste of the supper conversation. Stifling a trounced sigh, Haytham grudgingly placed the glass back on the dining room table, his digits lingering on the crystal stem for a few long seconds. What his wife asked of him was of no paltry worth; Ayden was shaping up to be quite the adversary to an enemy and a rather formidable accomplice to an ally; his well-honed skills and attuned training would undoubtedly be welcomed with open arms into their Order. Ironic that he'd struggled with a similar conversation only hours ago with his teenaged son, his interest in meddling in the affairs in the White Mountains a harsh mixture of worry for his anticipation and excitement for his interest in assisting the Order.

But his time of glory within the Order would come eventually. Maybe not at the accelerated rate Ayden was hoping but definitely not at the delayed timeframe his wife planned.

And so, with a heavy heart, Haytham forced a smile at his wife and lied: "I promise."


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks again for the awesome reviews! You really have no idea how happy they make me! **

**Happy reading!**

* * *

Sleep wasn't coming to him.

Rolling over in his bed, the moon light from his window casting a serene glow in his bedroom, Ayden ignored the hunger pains in his stomach. Maybe skipping supper and dinner wasn't the best idea. Then again, at the time of the meals, he couldn't fathom facing his paternal parent after the debasing lecture from the man, his bellowing words of anger still resonating obstinately in his head.

After being sent to his bedroom hours ago, it didn't take long for the Templars to leave the house; either they concluded their business or his father finally had his fill of frustrations for the day. Fulfilling his promise, the elder Kenway did indeed 'deal' with the teen and delivered a rage-filled lecture. Such reprimands always went by without a hitch when the youth would obediantly listen to the lecture and make promises to follow his word.

But Ayden was never one to take the easy route. Especially when he felt wronged. It wasn't long before what started as a simple lecture was transformed into a full-fledged argument.

Darting his eyes over his closed bedroom door, the teen narrowed his gaze on the faint light that flickered from the small crack at the bottom. With a quick check at the time on his pocket watch that rested on his nightstand - the time a few minutes past midnight - he felt his senses and curiosity heighten, the prospect of an intruder a possibility. Grabbing his dagger he kept concealed beneath his pillow, he slowly made his way to his door and, without trying to make a noise, he gently turned the brass knob and emerged into the hallway.

The house was silent. But not nearly as silent as it should've been for midnight.

Eyeing his parent's closed bedroom door, Ayden briefly contemplated waking his parents. A wave of pride and self-righteousness washing over him, he quickly thrust the idea from his mind. He could handle whatever or whoever it was that was in their home. Squeezing the faded leather wrapped around the hilt of his dagger, Ayden glanced at the other end of the hallway, seeing where the flickering light originated. His father's study. With the door shut, he wasn't allowed a glimpse at the person.

Softly walking down the hall, his bare feet incredibly silent on the padded rug, Ayden ignored the cold chills that run up and down his spine. Dressed in a thin, loose white shirt, the neckline cut open to show his collar bone, his arms had small bumps from the frigid spring night. He wore a pair of navy blue breeches that stopped just below his knee, the rest of his barren legs and feet without protection from the chilled air. Creeping along the hall, just as he approached the closed door to the study, a familiar cough sounded from inside.

He should've stopped, gone back to his bedroom. Apparently there was no threat to their household. And yet, even equipped with such knowledge, he still gravitated towards the study, though he shoved his dagger into the back of his waistband.

Surprised at finding the door slightly ajar rather than latched shut, his curiosity burning bright and getting the better of him, Ayden silently pushed the door open.

The scene that greeted him wasn't novel - rather, it was the same disheartening image that'd been stamped in his mind when he thought of the damned room. Sitting behind his mahogany desk was his father, his head turned down as he read and supported by a hand. The three oil lamps situated around the room - one on the desk, one at the table, and one beside the door - offered great illumination... the source for which caught the youth's attention.

"I would've heard you downstairs with the amount of noise you made."

Snapping his gaze back towards his father, Ayden's narrowed his eyes on the man's down turned face. He flipped a page in the ledger he was apparently reading. "I doubt that."

A small grin pulling at his mouth, Haytham looked up at his son, eyeing the boy's hesitation in the doorway. "It's late, is it not?" He glanced at his pocket watch to confirm. "What are you still doing awake at this hour?"

"I could ask you the same thing." His father sent him a look, and he quickly caught himself before he rolled his eyes. "I am not tired."

"Not hungry... not tired. I'm noticing a pattern with you," Haytham replied, and gestured to a chair that rested in front of his desk. "If you're not going back to bed, you may as well sit down. Little use in you standing over there." The boy hesitated at the offer; an action that didn't go unnoticed by the elder man. Haytham lifted a brow. "Or are you still sulking over your punishment from earlier?"

"I do not sulk." A renewed wash of anger coursing through him, Ayden shot his father an annoyed look as he stalked over to the chair, all but throwing himself down in it. "And if all your going to do is insult me, why even invite me in here?"

"Please, Ayden, its far too late to deal with such antics now. Do you truly want another reprimand?"

His father sounded tired and worn, and the teen nearly physically flinched at the hint of a beg in the normally proud voice. Blinking, he eyed the elder man's features, noticing his haggard appearance. "I'm-I'm sorry," he replied quietly, averting his gaze downwards.

"An apology from you... and here I thought the night was just cold. I didn't even consider Hell freezing over."

The youth snapped his gaze back to his parent, a twinge of hurt in his eyes. "I know when to admit my wrong doings. The question is, do you?"

"I was not aware that I slighted you." Leaning back, Haytham took a sip out of his glass of whiskey; the bitter liquid was surely in need.

"You slight me every time you allow _him_ to call me a savage or insult my people...you just let him say those things. I do not see why you keep his company, father."

Yes, the booze was indeed needed. "Charles Lee? My closest friend? Truly, Ayden, I know not why you two cannot make amends."

The teen pursed his lips. It was all he could do to keep the decade old threat at bay from spilling from his mouth, despite the perfect opportunity being presented. Was it the fear of the man making good on his threat that subdued his temptation to unveil the truth of his capture eleven years ago, that Charles would attempt to kill him? But what the man said only hours earlier was right - he was no longer a helpless, defenseless child. After a decade of harsh conditioning beneath the Grand Master, pushed to his limits and beyond, he was sculpted into the perfect Templar, his ability with a blade and bow fatal. And yet, even equipped with such trainings, he still paled at the thought of disclosing the priceless information about his father's most trusted Templars. Then again, so much time had passed and they hadn't a clue at the time that he was Haytham's son; maybe his father would simply forgive the man.

"We just do not see eye to eye," the teen replied, glancing down at the hem on his shirt cuff. The white fabric was a striking contrast to his tanned skin, the difference only minute evidence to his mixed blood. "Maybe you should ask him. He was the one that started the argument today."

"If you continue acting like a child, I don't see how you expect me to treat you anything but one. He's your elder and superior... you know this, Ayden. You are to respect him."

"Sorry, next time I will respect him as he punches me in the face."

Haytham poured the brown alcohol in his glass, filling it more than he normally would. "Don't feign innocence, Ayden. It was your disrespectful words that riled him up."

"Fine. I just will not talk to him. Better?"

"No! What would be better is if I didn't have to worry about you while having to deal with _this_," he gestured to the maps and papers that still littered the table, their positioning untouched from earlier that day. "Today was _suppose_ to be an imperative meeting, yet you interrupted that work as well."

"I told you, I will do it!" the teen exclaimed, quickly catching his rising voice before it became a yell. Last thing he needed was his mother's wrath. "Just tell me when I need to leave and I will go!"

Haytham narrowed his gaze on his son. "You've kept the Order at arms length for years, why the sudden interest now? Don't tell me that your pride has become so stubborn that you'll risk your life. Not that it matters - you won't be going."

"You lecture _me_ about pride and stubborness?" the boy laughed darkly. "I've been through your trainings and mind games for years, and yet you still do not give me a challenge! Maybe it is _your_ pride that I'll succeed that stops you."

The Englishman nearly choked on the booze at the audacity in the teen's words. "That is absurd!"

"Then why don't you trust me!"

"This has nothing to do with- "

"I do not understand you! This one time that I show interest in your work, you throw me to the side as though I am useless!"

"Oh, relying on dramatics now, are we?" Haytham replied sardonically, his voice dangerously low. He suddenly slammed the now empty glass on the desk. Given his force on the object he'd be surprised if the bottom was still intact. But the action got the effect his sought, the boy jumping slightly with a jolt. "Yes, you've been through some training but you're hardly worthy to take on an Assassin by yourself!"

"How would you even know? You have never given me the chance!"

"Why do you truly want to go, Ratonhnhaké:ton? Arrogance? Pride? Make a point to Charles, perhaps?" The boy snapped his eyes to the side, giving him away. Haytham released a tense sigh. "So that's it. Some adolescent streak of pompousness is the driving force here."

"How am I ever going to learn about your work if you keep me one step behind?" Ayden countered, quick to try a different tactic. "I must learn sometime!"

"Going after an Assassin is hardly considered a novice mission, Ayden!"

"You are that worried about me failing? That I will let this Assassin walk away freely? Give me more credit, father!"

The glass no longer in his hand, Haytham resorted to slamming his fist on the desk as he stood angrily. "I'm worried about _you_ not walking away, damnit!"

The room became deathly silent. Blinking in a stupor, the brash words resonating deeply for Ayden, he shook his head slowly, feeling like he'd been slapped without so much a warning. "I-I will be fine, father. Please... you have to let me do this."

Haytham wished the strong alcohol would offer some sort of peace to his fretted nerves. He gingerly sat back down, his body and mind beyond exhausted. "If you weren't going alone, I would consider it. Hell, even if you brough Hickey I'd feel better."

Ayden felt a small grin move across his face. "He would make a good meat shield. Probably the extent of his usefulness."

The elder man sent his son a half grin, the emotion not quite making it to his eyes. "There will be a time and place for you, Ratonhnhaké:ton. But this is not it. It's important that we neutralize this Assassin. And I don't want your safety in jeopardy when it doesn't have to be."

"Then who will go if not me? What William said about Tuscarora hating English is true. I've-I've seen it first hand." The boy paused, forcing back the entourage of dark memories; memories of their hardened warriors, blades drawn, rushing to end his young life. "They'll kill you if they think you are threatening their lands."

Haytham nodded, the frown tugging on his mouth. "I know. But we haven't a choice, I'm afraid." He thought the youth would interject with a plea to send him, but he instead stayed silent. Glancing up, the Englishman took in his son's empty gaze fastened at the oil lamp that cast dancing flames on his features. "You're young, Ayden... no matter how much you like to think that you know this world better than anyone else. And yes, you are trained - hell, after today, I think even Charles can't argue that," the corners of the teen's mouth twitched to a smile, no doubt fighting against the boy's mind not to lessen his strong front, "but please, do not meddle in these affairs. Please respect my wishes."

A few beats of tense silence passed, and for a fleeting moment, Haytham prepared to defend his orders, but his assumptions were pecularly misplaced.

"Fine, father. If you truly do not want my assistance, I will not get involved."

"_Yamwa_," (**thank you**) Haytham replied, thanking the stars and the God almighty above that his stubborn child finally relented to his will. "Besides, how could you prepare to kill an Assassin _and_ ready yourself for Harvard?"

Snapping his attention back to his father, Ayden furrowed his brows in curiosity, though silently he refused to let the Assassin ordeal go. "Harvard? What do you mean?"

"Well, I suppose congratulations are in order." He gestured down to the open ledger and papers on his desk, the papers that he was pouring himself over when Ayden first came in. Leaning forward slightly, the boy's eye caught the familiar Harvard insignia on the corner of a paper. He left his acceptance letter and documentation in the study from earlier. "Why did you not tell me earlier?"

Ayden smiled, basking in the pride on his father's beaminig voice; an emotion he strived to see from the elder Kenway. "You seemed rather preoccupied with yelling at me." Haytham shot him a look, which the teen returned with equal intensity. "And do not act surprised. The name Samuel Locke sound familiar? Because the he sure knew you."

"Ah yes, Locke. A peculiar fellow, if I remember correctly?"

"And apparently a Templar."

Haytham waved his hand through the air, hoping the action would dissipate the lingering irk in the youth's voice. "I would call him more of a fanatic than a Templar. He was initiated in London a few years after me, though I don't believe his career progressed much further after that. Truly I'm amazed the man has managed to stay alive."

Ayden blinked. "So, wait, he is not part of your Order?"

"Well, he is a Templar, by all rights, but he has not shown any particular... affinity to my rite. I believe Benjamin remains in touch with the man." He paused, detecting the origin of the youth's skepticism. "No, Ayden, I didn't go out of my way to contact Locke regarding your admission. And even if he did make his decision because of your relation to me, then so be it. Show them that you earned your spot in their institution."

"I guess... I just don't like feeling that I was not given the same consideration as the other applicants... that I am somehow special."

"If you fear you were given preferential treatment for your surname, you would have been given the same privileges for your first name. That college has been pining to get a Native into their ranks to learn more about the culture."

"So... both sides of my heritage are to blame?"

Haytham sighed and stood from the desk, gesturing to his son to do the same. "Why must there be someone or something at fault, Ayden? Just count your blessings and move on. Come now, it's late and I pray we'll have your mother on both of us if we stay up any later."

The teen helped Haytham extinguish the flames in oil lamps and silently followed him out in the hall. Without the aid of the lamps they relied on the moonlight from the few windows along the hall, and gingerly stopped at his bedroom. Running a hand through his shoulder length hair, the ebony locks no longer held back into a low ponytail, Ayden glanced up at his father. Taller and broader than him, the man looked every bit the image of what a Grand Master ought to have been. Though he shed the heavy cloak and thick outer jacker, leaving him in his red waistcoat and cream colored breeches, the elder Kenway's toned structure was seen more prominantly. Ayden briefly thought back to the village and his Native friends' fathers, their hardstricken bodies showing wear from their trials, tanned skin a darker shade from the overbearing sun. But Ayden was robbed of the chance to see a paternal figure in his Native lands... no, he was left to spend time with his father in the privileged streets of Boston.

For a quick moment, he thought how his father would fare in his village and the duties that would asked of him. His mother tossed aside her instilled norms and values in exchange for English ones. But he wondered... if the village would've allowed it, would he have done the same with his English values and adopted their peoples'?

Taking in his father's washed face and pressed clothes, he already knew the answer.

"Do you need any assistance with completing the paperwork for Harvard?" Haytham asked in a whispered voice, interrupting the boy's musings.

"Um... I do not think so. It did ask for a copy of my... um... birth record?"

"I'll ask your mother to get it tomorrow," Haytham replied with a nod. As the boy wasn't technically born in an English colony, they had to backlog his birth with the Church after he moved to Boston eleven years ago. Regardless, he assumed it should suffice. "Now get some sleep."

"_Kwah tokén:'en sén:ta'wh_," (**Have a good sleep**) Ayden replied tiredly and turned into his bedroom.

But as he moved to shut the door, a hand softly stopped the action. The boy glanced up and met his father's stare through the remaining crack in the door expectantly. "_Oh niiawenhátie_?" (**What is it?**)

"You'd do wise to forget what you heard today about the White Mountains," Haytham replied solemnly. "Put it out of your mind. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

After receiving a mumbled good night from his father, Ayden slowly latched the door shut, his mind buzzing about the very topic he was instructed not to think about. Flopping himself back into his bed and drawing his cream duvet up to his chest, he felt a sense of foreboding creep on his mind.

* * *

The following morning went without pomp. By the time Ayden woke and prepared himself for the day, Haytham was already gone. But as promised, his mother had gotten a copy of his birth record. Breaking the news to his mother, that he would be attending Harvard in the upcoming months, had been significantly harder than discussing it with his father. Perhaps it stemmed from his shared culture with her, knowing of her sincere sacrifice she made when she assimilated to the English world. She never pressured him into rejoining their village full-time, but he noticed the comfort in her eyes when they visited the forest and their people, her aura relaxed and at peace.

Surprisingly, however, she took his acceptance to the esteemed school better than he thought; she seemed more excited for the accepantace than he did.

"_Are you done with your paperwork for school_?"

The words spoken in his native language of Kanien'kéha, Ayden glanced up as he finished pressing the paste on the underside of the envelope flap. Sitting at the dining room table, he nodded at his mother, who stood stiffly in the doorway. The sun's rays in the late morning offered a serene and calming light cast into the grand estate, the immaculate and pristine dining room seeming to glow with the brilliance. Eyeing his mother, he took in her Colonial attire, a pale blue outer dress that covered her navy blue petticoat. A shawl with floral print was drapped over her thin shoulders, while her glossy ebony hair was tucked beneath a white cap. Stately and beautiful, Ayden couldn't deny that despite his mother's Native features, she wore the Colonial attire well. And yet, taking in her eloquent and elegant posture, he struggled to imagine her in her Native clothing, or harnessing a bow and arrow.

"_I think I got all the paperwork complete. Some of the questions seemed ridiculous_." Eyeing the cap and shawl, her traveling clothes, Ayden stood from the table. "_Where are you going?_"

"_The market,_" she replied, her soft brown eyes lingering on the envelope in his grasp for a few long seconds. "_I assume you have to mail that. Would you mind helping me today? I would ask Mary but her grandson has taken ill. We can mail the letter, too_."

"_Of course. I would be glad to help._"

Following her out of the dining room and towards the front door, the envelope that would seal his fate to Harvard College in one of his hands, his other dutifully buttoned up his waist coat. The weather still stubbornly hung onto the chilly gusts of winter winds, despite the vast arrival of its warmer cousin; the outside elements were fickle and unpredictable. After living in the bustling urban jungle for over a decade, however, Ayden had come to accept its qualities and shortcomings.

"_When do you think you will start at Harvard_?" Ziio asked, following her son out the front door and down the small stone steps that led from their home. Despite the chill in the air, the sun basked down on them, the heated rays showing a glimpse of the incredible heat that was to come in the next few months.

"_I am not sure,_" he said, squinting as the sun hit his face and they made their way down the narrow cobblestone walkway that led to the frontdoor. The pansies and lavender that sprouted beside the walkway caught his eyes, their slowly budding blossoms relishing in the signs of summer. Swinging the picket fence open for his mother, Ayden glanced around the quiet neighborhood that he'd grown up in. A row of large estates lined the brick road, each one having its own welcoming fence around the front yard, which were relatively small. Though he was sure the city dwelling inhabitants valued their paltry pieces of land, the lots paled in comparison to what he was accustomed to in the dense forest, where he'd been born and raised for the first segment of his life. And yet, he didn't devalue Boston; simply held it in a different perspective. The heart of the city was a mere few blocks away, and from their affluent block of houses, he could already hear the hoard of voices that evidenced the growing city was bursting with life. "_Where is father_?"

"_Some kind of meeting I would guess. He left early this morning, only a little while after the sun rose_." Ayden latched the fence door shut and turned down the street with his mother.

"Ah! Good morning, Misses Kenway, Master Kenway!"

The familiar calling voice grabbing their attention, mother and son stopped walking and glanced at the yard of one of the homes just a few houses down from their own. A grin going across her face, Ziio abandoned her plight on the road and approached her neighbor's fence. "Good morning, Misses Hudson. It is almost noon - maybe I should say good afternoon."

Ayden eyed the woman, Misses Martha Hudson, for a few beats. A decade ago, when he and his mother relocated to Boston, Martha had boldly reached out to the assimiliating Natives, taking a particular interest in his mother. Extending a friendship where others were hestitant at doing, he'd grown up with the woman's presence in his life, the friendship between his mother and the woman undeniable. The Hudson family was with five children, significantly larger than their small unit. And by the look of her swelling stomach, Ayden guessed a sixth was on the way.

Nodding his head respectfully at the woman, his attention wasn't captivated by the friendly conversation between the women - their topics skirting on nothing more than boring pleasantries and words of the weather - but instead his gaze lingered over to the young woman at her side. Catching his gaze, the girl - the child closest to his age from the Hudson family - grinned and abandoned taking an active roll in their mothers' conversation, slowly inching away from the elder woman and over to Ayden.

"Is it true? Were you accepted to Harvard?" the girl asked, her bright blue eyes shining with excitement. She saw the look of confusion pass over his features and chuckled. "Your father visited mine this morning - something about the tea trade. But he mentioned you'll be going to Harvard soon."

Ayden grinned, suddenly feeling strangely sheepish. Just as his mother developed a fondness for Misses Hudson, he'd grown comfortable around the child closest to his age, the second eldest child, Grace Hudson. Her family equally as wealthy, her father conducting some sort of shipping and trade business, Grace was given the luxury of attending his primary school where other females were not. But once he began attending the Boston Latin School - a secondary school for the sons of Boston affluent - three years ago, their time together decreased all the more. Grown and developed into their own rights, Ayden slowly began noticing his company with her decline steadily, her duties to the household and learning her place in society taking precedent over her time, and she eventually withdrew from the Manther Primary School completely. With such a bustling household, her assistance to her family was surely needed.

And yet, Ayden was surprisingly dismayed at her absence. Bright and eager to learn, especially for a female, he silently scuffed the societal norms of the Colonialists. His people back in the village valued a matriachial society, where the women of the household were given power over the males, their wise intuition the guiding hand of the family system.

"Yeah, I am just about to mail my acceptance," the boy replied, glancing down at the envelope. "What about you?"

She chuckled softly, though the emotion didn't make it to her eyes, and tucked a stray strand of blonde hair beneath her white bonnet. "I've finished at Manther's, Ayden." She spared a quick glance at her mother, finding peace that the elder women were distracted in their own conversation. "I've thought about attending classes to be a school teacher, but my help is needed here."

The boy frowned. "I heard about a women's seminary school opening in Pennsylavania around Bethlehem. I think in the next year it is-"

"Tell me of Harvard," she interrupted, her sapphire eyes flashing with unbriddled regret for a split second, though it was quickly replaced with excitement. "I've never seen the campus, besides walking past it a few times. What do you intend on studying?"

"Um... I have not really thought about it," he replied, taken back for a moment from her abruptness. "Maybe philosophy or the fine arts."

She smiled. "I can imagine you in those disciplines. You never did like arithimatic or the sciences."

He almost pointed out that it was she that preferred those subjects, and it was she that tutored him in the natural philosophies to help him get accepted to the Boston Latin School. A natural wonder and knack with the classic and aspiring philosophers that studied the universe and organisms, Grace had excelled in such subjects during their primary school days. But her gender trumped her incredible potential, and she was cast aside for consideration to higher privileges and esteems.

Perhaps it was from his time in his village, where the females were given significantly more leadership roles while the men were expected to carry out the physical duties, but Ayden loathed his friend's forced lot in life. She had a mere handful of years before she'd be married off and given to a man as a form of property. Maybe she would've been better in the likes of his village, where her brillance and potential would be valued and cherished for the good of their tribe. Naturally she would be expected to carry out her womanly duties, providing children for her partner and banding together with the other females of the longhouse to ensure daily tasks were complete.

Eyeing her Colonial styled clothing, the white shawl over her pale violet floral dress, he contemplated if she'd even have the likes to fit in his village, amongst the natural beauties of the forest. Her smooth, pale skin looked akin to the porcelein dolls he'd seen little girls carrying, and her golden blonde hair couldn't be more different from the black hued hair of his people. And yet, his mind still constructed an imagary of her in his village. He easily pictured her in the deerskin skirts and accompanying shirt, the top stopping mid abdomen to allow respite from the heat of the cruel summer sun. Her light-skinned mid-drift would indeed look different from what he was accustomed to seeing, but he would be happy to catch a glimpse of her normally covered body, the knee length skirt offering a great view and the rest up to the imagination...

"Ayden!"

He blinked, pulled from the depths of his intimate thoughts, and looked at Grace, who eyed him expectantly. "Hm?"

She sent him an amused look. "You were thinking about Harvard, weren't you?"

"Yeah, um, sorry," he lied sheepishly, hoping his tanned skin would hide the heated blush he felt on his cheeks. "A lot on my mind."

"Well, when do you expect to leave? Are you going to stay in the dormitories?"

"Probably not. The campus is pretty close. And... I would like to help my parents at home if I could."

"Then I guess I'll see you around a bit longer," she beamed, a smile spread on her face. "Hopefully with all of your studies you can make time to stick your head over the fence to say hi."

He grinned back. "I will always make time for that." Feeling a strong stare on him, Ayden glanced to the side, and met the watchful yet knowing gaze from their mothers, a sly smile on Misses Hudson's face and a glint of amusement in his mother's eye. He frowned... he knew that look. The two woman had abandoned their conversation, apparently taking interest in the teens' discussion.

"Grace will be attending the Bradford Academy in Hampton this summer to prepare for her debutante," Misses Hudson said proudly, her knowing eyes meeting Ziio's. "She's already learned much of her etiquettes and manners but a bit of refining will do her some good."

Naive and dumbfounded to the unspoken conversation between their mothers, Ayden blinked in surprise. He'd heard of debutantes before, the annual ball that marked a group of young women's debut into formal society, but he'd never particularly found the tradition worthy. It skirted on barbaric; a social gathering orchestrated by parents to showcase their daughters to eligible, wealthy bachelors. And the English accused his people of being savages. "So you will be gone this summer?" he asked Grace.

"As will we, Ayden," Ziio interjected, earning her a look of confusion from her son. "We are going to spend the summer in the village. I felt it would be nice before you become busy with school."

He shared a look with his mother, hoping to convey the message that they'd talk later. As much as he loved his maternal side of his family and visiting his best friend, Kanen'tó:kon, he shamefully admitted his longing to remain in Boston. The sheer notion of spending another summer away from his colonial friends and his father sounded less than appealing, and he wondered if he could negotiate half the summer to be in the village.

"I am sure that Grace will do well at Bradford," Ziio replied politely, ignoring the look from the boy. "When will her debutante be?"

"Well, she's nearly sixteen. I would imagine next year. And of course your family will receive a personal invitation." Misses Hudson paused, a twinkle in her eye shining. "Let us have tea tomorrow afternoon - we can discuss this a bit more."

Ziio glanced for a beat at her son, running her calculating eyes over his bemused features, before nodding at her friend. "That would be nice. I look forward to it."

The two women said their cordial good-bye, and Ayden concealed his own surprise and confusion at the peculiar turn of the conversation as he bid farewell to Grace. Following his mother down the brick road towards the lively city, he couldn't quite shrug off the twisting sensation in his stomach. When did life become so confusing?

"_I am sorry, Ratonhnhaké:ton. I should have told you earlier about this summer. I only decided this morning after learning about your acceptance_."

Side stepping a wagon filled with straw hay, Ayden glanced at his mother and changed over to his native language. "_We are going to be gone for the entire summer_?"

She immediately sensed the hesitation in his voice. "_Yes, there is- it is important that we spend time there... all of us._"

"_All of us_?" He sent her a quizzical look.

"_Your father will be coming, too._"

Even more confusion buzzed in his head. Never before had his father step foot in their reclusive village, but such an arrangement was agreed on both sides. His grandmother, the Clan Mother, obstinately stood by the mantra to never allow 'outsiders' into the tribal grounds; even the presence of Colonists in the Valley was forbidden. To be fair, however, his father never expressed a desire to venture into the village, though he occasionally asked about the sacred site a few times. "_How? He is English." _

"_The Elders will give him allowance. He will not stay for long - a month at most._"

They turned down a street, the area thickened with the mass of Bostonians bustling about their business, making their way towards the desired area of business. "_He's agreed to this? Be away from Boston for a month? Away from his work for a month?"_

Ziio hesitated for a moment. "_Not yet but he will. As I said, it is important that he be there. He will go._"

Perhaps visiting the seclusive village wasn't going to be nearly as lackluster as he thought; sure, he'd be seperated from his English friends but the change of routine with his father accompanying them sounded incredibly appealing. For the past couple years, Ayden had found himself drawing the line between his two lives bolder, especially where his father was concerned. Maybe with the elder Kenway venturing into the once enigmatic part of Ayden's life the teen would feel more rounded... complete perhaps.

But the question of his father's work still hung resolutely in the air. The Order was another family for him, and one that Ayden sometimes felt got more attention than the real one. Whatever reasoning or knowledge his mother was going to use as leverage must have been profound. Seperating work and the Grand Master was never an easy feat. The conversation with his father from the night prior floated into his head, the older man's orders to abandon his plight to help in his problem in the White Mountains. Maybe the time away from Boston, from the headquarters of the Order, would do his father and him some good.

The market was close; the teen could hear the recognizable sounds of the produce vendors in the distance. About to turn a corner sharply, Ayden glanced at his mother, a hint of unmasked excitement in his voice. "_When are we leaving for the village? Maybe we can- _"

Slamming roughly into a solid chest as he rounded the corner, the unbalancing impact taking the teen by surprise, Ayden fell back, his hands shooting up in an effort to catch his fall. But before he made contact with the cobblestoned street, several pairs of hands ruthlessly grabbed at his arms, yanking him forward. The teen's mind reverted to his trainings from his father, but one glance at the redcoat clad British soldiers immediately stopped all thoughts of retaliation, the sharpened points of the bayonet's fixated on his chest. Everything moved incredible swift, and before he realized what was happening, the hands threw him against the side of the brick building behind him, his back crashing into the unyielding surface.

"What are you doing?! Stop this!"

He heard his mother's voice, but she was pushed behind the half dozen Redcoats, their sneering smiles and lewd gazes on her irking Ayden more than the regime captain that slammed the side of his musket against his throat, holding him in place.

"What the hell is this for? Don't touch her!" he yelled, the view of his mother suddenly gone. The few semaritans that passed by could hardly see him through the surrounding British soldiers - not that they would do much. In the past year, it'd become an unfortunate yet common scene to lay witness to the abuse by the power hungry Redcoats, though Ayden tried to intervene when he had the means to.

The captain pushed the musket harder against his throat as he leaned in closer, the stench of his foul breath hitting the teen like thick rolling fog. "And what have we here, gents? A dirty, injun by the looks of it." The man paused as he glanced down at the boy's clothing, brandishing a feigned look of confusion. "But look at that - no feather or animal skins on this... hm... let me guess... half breed?"

Ayden's free hand immediately shot to his waistband, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of his dagger. "You find this just? You ran into me!"

The captain joined the clan of soldiers with laughing at the adolescent. "Well, I guess this'll teach you to watch where you walk from now on, hm? Or maybe it'll teach your digusting, revolting kind to stay back in your shoddy village like the drowned forest rats that you are."

He could embed the blade into the captain. It'd be so easy. And he felt confident he'd be able to neutralize the remaining soldiers easily. But his mother was still present, and while he would be able to escape into the throngs of bustling Bostonians, he doubted he'd be able to do so with his mother. "I'm English, you inbred idiot," Ayden exclaimed. "Now let me go. You have no business holding me."

"An educated injun - don't see that everyday. Your master must be quite generous to give you some proper learning." The musket didn't loosen.

It took all of his willpower not to kill the man. "My master? I am not a slave!" He paused, his hand releasing the hilt of his dagger and instead grabbing the precious envelope tucked into his pocket. "Look if you don't believe me." Swallowing thickly, he regretably ripped open the envelope, the small packaging addressed to the president of Harvard tearing from the action. Keeping the Harvard documents safetly in his grasp, the teen pulled out a fresh copied parchment. "Here. Look. Church of England birth record for me. And in case you don't know how to read, this word right here... under birth city... it says 'Boston'."

The captain released the musket from the teen's throat, his other hand grabbing the extended document with brief consideration. Whatever twisted source of entertainment they were hoping to get from terrorizing the boy lingered away, the soldiers no longer packed in around the captain and youth. Massaging his neck, Ayden quickly tucked the ravaged envelope with his documents back into his pocket for safe keeping; he'd need to package the documents again. It was ridiculous he even needed to sacrifice the envelope to prove his word and, most likely, keep himself out of harms way by the Redcoats. And a slave! A chill went down his spine. When traveling to New York with his father, he'd seen the revolting slave wagons with their 'goods' bounded and beated. A mixture of blacks and Natives, the slaves were stripped of their dignity and pride, forced into a life of serving and oppression.

"Sired by Haytham Kenway..." the captain read, thrusting the document back to the teen, his face thoughtful. "Kenway... that name sounds familiar."

"I don't believe we've met."

The captain spun around, meeting the pointed glare from Haytham. Catching his father gaze for a beat, Ayden glanced down at his hands. Sure enough, the familiar glimmer of a hidden blade poked out from beneath his coat sleeve. Shifting his gaze a bit, the teen eyed Thomas Hickey and Charles Lee behind his father.

"Is there a problem here?" Haytham asked tightly, taking a threatening step towards the captain. The band of Redcoats slowly inched away from the group.

"No... No problem at all, good sir," the captain replied, stepping out of arms reach from the Grand Master. "Continue on."

Ayden watched the group of Redcoats send a few lingering looks of disdain at the Templars, no doubt considering roughing them up as well, but they were smart enough to know a losing battle when they saw one. The teen readjusted his blue coat. "I could have handled them," he shot at his father as he pushed himself off the wall. "You didn't need to intervene."

Haytham sighed deeply. Running his inspecting, examining gaze over his son, his eyes searching for any hint of injury, he was silently satisfied at finding the boy free of any damage... at least in the physical sense. He had no doubt the teen took a blow to his pride. "Why must you make an argument out of everything, Ayden?"

Finding his mother tucked safely behind Hickey and Charles, the teen shook his head as he all but stalked past the elder Kenway, his shoulder roughly bumping into his without a care. "I am not arguing - just making a point."

"Stay away from the Redcoats," Haytham replied, ignoring his offspring's stubborness and testy attitude. Gesturing to the Templars to follow, the elder Kenway reached his wife side as she continued towards the market at the end of the road. "I really don't want attention on our family from the British when it's not needed."

Ayden was tempted to point out that he hardly did anything to warrant the abuse from the Redcoats, but he knew the resolute tone in his father's voice. The conversation was over - and he was the blame. They reached the end of the road silently, his mother wordlessly intermixing with the other shoppers in the thriving market. Two baskets in her grips, he naturally assumed his employed help consisted of being something akin to a mule, expected to carry back the baskets that would be filled with items.

"It appears Eric wasn't stretching the truth about the Brit shipment coming in this morning."

Ayden glanced over the market at Charles' crisp, accented voice that dripped with curiosity and disdain, and spotted the worn wooden crates that housed the valued tea imported from England. A delicacy that was seen as more of a necessity than a luxury, the import serving a continuous source of flavor to the otherwise bland and often vile water. After spending a good portion of his young life in the wilderness of the Valley, the teen often questioned the colonists reliance on the pricey import; his Native kin were rather content with drinking from the pristine, crystal lake nestled beside the village.

And yet, if it weren't for the colonists unending dependence on the tea, he knew his father's Order's lucrative cut of the trading fees would be diminished. Though he never approached his father for the unjustified source of income, he wasn't daft to ignore the scattered parchment he managed to casually read when in his father's study time and time again. But the more finite and gritty details of the Order were still gray to him, the elder Kenway's insistence to remain in the murky shadows of knowledge both frustrating and easeful. He'd grown up knowing that some day he'd take his father's rightful place, being his heir, but the daunting role never fully dawned on him. And the few times he did consider it in his childish youth, he'd romanticized his importance, imagining waging grueling wars and triumphing others for the greater prospect of mankind.

In actuality, he hadn't a clue what the Templars truly sought; nor did he anticipate majority of his father's tasks as the Grand Master merely consisted of droning paperwork.

Blinking as he pulled himself back to the present, Ayden glanced around the rest of the market, ignoring the monotonous and cryptic discussion amongst the Templars. The butcher stands were already half empty, their daily inventory plucked by prospecting customers. And considering the slabs of large ribs that hung from a wooden post, the teen assumed the butcher's hunters were rather successful in their game in the past days. Habitually, Ayden inwardly frowned as he eyed the lackluster produce stands from the farmers. Their display of ears of corn paled considerably in size and quality to the likes of his village, certainly from the colonial farmer's sincere lack of understanding of the soil. But their rice and wheat looked abundant and healthy, possibly from gaining an understanding for agriculture of those produces. Located directly on the harbor, the Boston market was littered with a few fisherman, their incredible game consisting of impressively sized fish and crustaceans making the young Native teen stare at their carts in wonder. His mother would naturally make her way over to one of them to make a generous purchase; his father relished the sweet meat of a finely cooked lobster. The confectioner and baker carts were crowded with the typical mass of children, their wide eyes darting from the baked sweets to the delicate candy creations. Smiling at the excited children, Ayden shamefully remembered when he used to stare at the sweets, his lack of exposure to the lavish desserts making him strive for them all the more. And besides the more normal traders, there were the occasional exotic merchants, their oriental products displayed in their makeshift stands of stacked boxes.

Movement in the back of the already bustling area grabbed Ayden's trained eye, his instincts taking reign over his body, and he glanced up in time to see a figure tucked behind a gunsmith tent. Had he not been put through years of grueling drills and tiresome physical trainings, he might have passed off the peculiar figure, but he couldn't negate his prodding senses dictating him otherwise. Sparing a quick glances at his father, who was happily indulged in a conversation with the Templars, then at this mother, who was busy haggering the price of a satchel of vegetables, the teen opted to take matters into his own hands.

Squaring his shoulders and nonchalantly walking towards the tent, Ayden was rewarded with a quick glimpse of the suspicious - and strangely - familiar man. Their eyes meeting for a brief, dreading moment, the Native recognized the black man immediately. The man from the roof the other day. The man's face washed over in a look of curt alarm, but it was short-lived. Setting his jaw, the man held the stare with the adolescent for only a few dying seconds before he briskly turned on his heels and all but hurried out of the market, ducking around the corner into an alley.

Assuming an uneasy trot, Ayden's hand already gripped the clammy hilt of his dagger as he subtly gave chase to the man. He considered calling for his father but something - either his male bravado incensed from his compromising age or his mind solely focused on the apprehensive man - stopped him. He ignored the outside elements, ignored the carrying voices from the throngs of patrons in the market, ignored the feel of the cobblestone beneath his feet; he immersed himself in the heat of the chase, thriving off the pumping adrenaline in his blood. There was a possibility the situation would unfold to be nothing more than one of his father's infamous drills that tested his trainings and maintained the integrity of his skills.

Where his father's trainings fell short, the mental and physical fitness from his Native tribe compensated, and often times he even tended to prefer the tribal skills; his instincts sharper.

Turning around the corner, Ayden's immediately slowed his pace, his eyes darting around the barren, desolate alleyway. Where he expected to see the man, or at least his retreating form, there was nothing; just an empty alley. Swallowing uncertainly, he took a few hesitant steps into the depths of the alley, his boots splashing in the small pools of water in the potholes carved into the neglected cobblestone. His hearing was strained, the hair on the back of his neck standing tall in anticipation, his dagger held in front of him and at the ready.

Despite his battle-ready stance and presumed preparation for a brawl, Ayden didn't hear the triumphant slice of air from the figure that dropped from his safe position on the roof above.

A mass landing on him, Ayden released a grunt as he was slammed to the ground, his hand welding his dagger pinned between his chest and the damp stoned alley. Of course. Instantly his free hand began to work his body to flip in a less compromising situation, but his assailant was quick, anticipating the move. A hard weight presented into his back - what Ayden presumed was a knee - and a calloused hand grabbed his free arm, pinning it behind him.

Thrashing a few times, Ayden was pleased to find his arm pinned against his chest coming free, the action making the pressure on his back wiggle too a more manageable position. But his moment of achievement was doused rather quickly as the chilling steal of a blade was pressed into his neck.

"Who are you?" Ayden hissed, hating his helpless position.

The man behind him released a tense, sardonic chuckle. "It's a bit too late to feign innocence, Templar bastard."

His elbow was coming free, the teen grudgingly released his grip on the dagger; holding the weapon and maneuvering himself would be difficult to do. Instead he slowly pushed a small amount of leverage on his now free hand, mindful to take note to the generous gap between his body and his assailant's arm that pressed the dagger into his throat. "You are an Assassin?"

The dagger pressed harder into his neck. "Don't act so surprised. I'm sure your father fed you more than enough lies. But enough talk! If we can't get the Grand Master, his pathetic son will do."

Ayden forcefully made his mind ignore the blade, the lurking danger on his delicate skin. Instead, he focused his attention to his survival. "Yes, I agree - enough talk."

Hoisting his body up just a few inches, Ayden snapped his once constricted arm out from under him and used the newly discovered momentum to push the Assassin's arm away, though not before the dagger grazed his tan skin. Disregarding the warm liquid that slowly leaked down his neck, the teen was solely concentrated on getting the upper hand, his father's trainings burning strong in his mind. The Assassin pushed off of him, he quickly grabbed his down dagger and twisted around, hastily pushing himself to his feet.

But he was far from done with the Assassin.

The black man flailing at his off balanced position, Ayden was quick to capitalize on his opportune moment. Harshly delivering a kick to the Assassin's midsection, he didn't wait for the man to recover as he instinctively bent over himself. Grabbing the front of the man's jacket in one hand, he sent a couple ruthless punches across the man's face, ignoring the pained moans the action earned him. Primitive, trained instincts took hold of his body, and he so eagerly allowed them to guide his movements. Throwing the man against the brick wall of the close building, Ayden kept one hand gripped on the man's jacket while his second plunged the dagger into his shoulder, the man's pitiful screams not dampening his vigor as he embedded the blade until the hilt met the man's blood-soaked clothes.

Leaning in closer to the withering man, Ayden twisted the dagger. "Now answer me! Who are you?"

Despite his pain, the man barred his teeth. "Piss off."

"If you answer my questions, I will give you a quick death," the teen quietly said, glaring up at the slightly taller man. "But if not, I'll leave you to my father's mercy. You seem to know him well enough - I will let you imagine what he would do."

The man wasn't swayed by the looming threat, his low chuckle grating on Ayden's nerves all the more. "Well look at you. Just the perfect little brat soldier to daddy, aren't you?"

Just as Ayden was about to twist the dagger further into the man's shoulder, the Assassin's arm quickly raised, and it was only then the teen realized his dire mistake. The hidden blades. Jumping back quickly in a poor effort to escape the retaliation, he knew his attempts were in vain. At such a close proximity to the man, he was lucky to have dodged as much as he did. Shamefully he was forced to abandon the dagger, not seeing if it remained in the Assassin's shoulder, as the hidden blade stabbed between his rib cage on his far right side, maliciously cutting through the muscle and thick tissue. But the stab was shallow in thanks of Ayden's preparation, his jumping back lessening the devastating blow.

Regardless, the teen reeled from the blinding pain, his hand grabbing the side of his torso while he unceremoniously fell to his defeated knees. The man was sure to finish him, sure to capitalized on his weakened and injured state. And yet, nothing came; there was no finishing blow. Glancing up, he watched the Assassin stumble away from the wall that dripped ominously with his blood, his hand wrapped around the still embedded dagger. Initially, Ayden thought it was strange the man was walking in the opposite direction of him, but as he squinted his eyes, forcing his wavering vision to focus enough to see two figures on the opposite end of the alley, a cold dread consumed him. More Assassins.

"Ayden!"

His digits were coated in his crimson blood that flowed freely out of his fresh wound - his shirt and waistcoat saturated in the liquid essence of his life. He heard familiar voices from behind him, the sounds of thundering foot steps on the cobblestone. Dizzy and disoriented, he barely noticed that he was no longer sitting up but sprawled on the ground, the cool stones beneath his head. A veil of darkness descended on the corners of his already dim and hazy vision, but Ayden struggled to keep a grasp on his consciousness.

"Hickey! Follow them!"

A fuzzy face appeared in the teen's vision, and after numerous blinks in a feeble attempt to clear his vision, he managed to make out the distinguishable features of his father, his normally stoic face etched with suggestions of worry. Someone on the opposite side of the Grand Master peeled back the adolescent's weak hands around the wound, the teen not fighting against the inspecting hands.

"Ayden..." his father's unfocused face said firmly. The Native's blinks were becoming slower, his lids feelings incredibly heavy and difficult to keep open. "Ayden. Stay awake!"

"Father? The-the a-a-"

"Shhh," the elder man shushed him, sharing a long, dismal look with the figure that sat on the other side of him, conveying some discussion silently. "Don't close your eyes. Stay awake."

His father's demanding voice sounded so very far away, as though it were floating above him, and he was hardpressed to adhere to the obstinate order from the Grand Master. Strangely, Ayden considered the reprimand and lengthy lecture that might result from him not following the order, despite the sinking, unearthly coldness that consumed his limbs and body. At least the coldness numbed the once gripping pain from the wound. Tired and worn, he didn't fight against the tugging hands of unconsciousness that pulled at his mind, lulling him into their murky depths until only blackness consumed him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Phew! This is a pretty long chapter, but so much fun to write! Thanks again for the lovely reviews! **

**Happy reading!**

* * *

The pressure and pain around his midsection was the first sensation that dragged Ayden from his fitful slumber. Lolling his head around on the plush pillow beneath him, he grudgingly cracked his eyes open. Each of his limbs felt weak and heavy, a stark contrast to the dizziness in his head. Blinking a few times to rid the sleep from his eyes, the teen glanced around the dark, shadowy bedroom. _His_ bedroom.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he frowned at the tugging feeling from his chest, and glanced down at his torso. Void of a shirt and wearing only his knee-length breeches, he was laying in his bed, the blankets and sheet stopping at his hip, offering a view of his once battered body. Running a few digits over the thick bandages that wrapped around his entire middle torso, he nearly winced as the harsh reality of his first run-in with an Assassin slammed down on him - the damned hidden blade that earned the Assassin the upper hand of the fight.

Whispered voices made Ayden perk up immediately in his bed, his eyes straining to learn who the voices belonged too or any other distinguishing features. But with his door closed, his attempts were in vain - the voices were somewhere else in the estate. Sparing a quick glance at his pocket watch on the bedside nightstand, surprised the late night hour was slightly passed midnight, the teen forced himself to eradicate the comforts of his bed. As his bare feet met the cool hardwood floor, the frigidness sending chills up his spine, he was quick to keep a secure hand on his throbbing torso. Pressure eased the discomfort. His other hand guided him along the wall, ready to grab at something should his balance falter and he succumb to his weakness. But he managed to stumble to his bedroom door and open it, still mindful to mask the noise of the action with his precise, careful movements.

Glancing down the dim hall, he eyed the equally darkened rooms that connected to the corridor. His parents' bedroom door was slightly ajar, though no lamps were burning. On the opposite end of the hall was his father's study - where Ayden assumed the voices originated from - but no illumination of a lamp evidenced its confines were occupied. Instead, a dull glow of dancing light was cast on the wall at the top of the stairs, a kaleidoscope of yellow and orange brilliance on the cream colored wall.

Walking down the hall, his hand still running along the wall for balance, Ayden slowly descended the stairs. He ignored the strain it put on his freshly healing wound, the stitches beneath the bandages pulling at the forced movement. Reaching the first floor of the dwelling, standing in the dark foyer, the teen glanced to the wide doorway on his right that led to the parlor room - where the light and voices drifted from.

There were four men in the immaculate sitting room, a blazing fire in the hearth casting a soft glow of the flames around the room. But no lamps were lit, the occupants left to rely on the lively fire for illumination. Blinking at the men, Ayden immediately recognized them, though they hadn't noticed his presence yet; he seized the opportunity to take in the dismal scene. Benjamin Church and Charles Lee sat beside each other on one of the pale couches, and while Benjamin looked significantly more at ease, Charles seemed edgy. Arms cross tightly over his chest, Charles' typically well-groomed figure was missing his lavish clothing elements - his luxurious jacket and waistcoat were gone, leaving him in only his long shirt and trousers. Moving his stare over, the teen glanced at Hickey standing on the side of the room, his shoulder leaned against the frame of the bay window, his dark eyes staring blankly out into the dense night. After knowing the man for a greater majority of his life, Ayden could only fathom what heavy burden lay on the Irishman's thoughts; not that he'd divulge such delicate topics. Darting his gaze to the final figure in the room, he felt a frown tug at his mouth, the afflictive and dispiriting scene becoming all the more sinister. Sitting in an arm chair beside the fire was Haytham, his normally well-groomed features looking haggard and tired. His tricorn hat and heavy jacket were missing, leaving his ebony hair with hints of graying unobscurred.

Taking a step into the parlor room, Ayden stumbled a bit, grabbing the attention of the Templars.

"Ayden," Haytham said with a hint of astonishment, immediately standing up from the armchair, Charles and Benjamin following suit. "What are you doing down here? You should be resting."

His side erupting in a warming pain from his misstep, Ayden instinctively grabbed the region of his wound though attempted to mask the pain on his face. Considering his father's and Benjamin's incredible speed as they crossed the threshold, he assumed his attempts were as weak as his lethargic limbs. "I am...fine. Just sore."

"Good Heavens, boy!" Benjamin exclaimed as he reached his side, none to gently pushing the teen's hands away from the bandages so his probing fingers would be granted access. "With all this moving about you're sure to pull your stitches!"

Ayden loathed the two pairs of hands that guided him towards the couches situated before the glowing hearth, he hated feeling like an invalid unable to fend for himself. But he swallowed the thickness of his stubbornness and grudgingly accepted the aid from the physician and his father. Sitting down stiffly on the couch, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the teen ignored the examining stare Charles threw at him; his energy depleted, the appeal of a brawl with the irksome man simply wasn't there. "Stitches?"

Benjamin was already tugging carefully at the bandages, lifting the fabric just enough to shove a digit in and softly prod the raw wound and thin threading in the ravaged skin. Eyeing the teen, he watched a look of discontent pass over the youthful features at his examining finger. "Have you no sense, boy? Getting stabbed by a hidden blade is no small wound." Content with the integrity of the stitches, Benjamin pulled his finger free, his young patient seeming to relax considerably. "Consider yourself lucky to be in the presence of a Harvard taught physician. I pray any other shotty colonial doctor would've so much tossed you aside as already dead."

"That's quite enough, Church."

Ayden blinked up at the unexpected person who interjected - Charles. Standing rigidly still, the eerie glimmer from the fire outlined his face, his normally hardset and judgmental eyes seeming to be doused from such harsh emotions. Instead, they looked blank and calculating, almost like a wounded animal unsure of what to make of offered help. "Where is your jacket?"

"Soiled in your blood," Charles simply replied, his darkened eyes not moving from the boy. Ayden looked confused, prompting the Templar to continue. "Your father assisted in trying to track the Assassins with Hickey. I was left to... carry you to aid. Unfortunately, the Assassins managed to away anyways."

"The Assassins..." Ayden repeated thoughtfully, glancing over at Haytham, who sat beside him. For a moment he considered pressing why his father would abandon him in such a devastating state, leaving him in the care of Charles. But he knew the answer, just didn't want to hear it. A Grand Master first, a worrying father second. Shoving the thought from his mind, the teen narrowed his gaze on the elder Kenway. "Who was that man? He knew I was your son - he thought I was a Templar!"

Haytham furrowed his brows at this. "Did he say anything else? Anything of importance?"

"Importance?" Ayden hissed back. "You mean besides nearly slicing my neck open and killing me? No, sorry, I guess I missed that."

"Enough with the dramatics and ridiculous attitude," the elder Kenway harshly countered, all hints of the worry and concern that once consumed him gone. "Now, I need you to tell me precisely what he said."

Ayden knew that tone - he'd come to loath it. The authoritative voice that offered no room for discussion or negotiations. "We did not exactly sit down for a conversation." He paused for a moment, ignoring the lecturing look from his father. Recalling the altercation with the Assassin, he easily remembered the testy insults and sparse words they exchanged. "He said something about using me instead of you. Does that sound familiar?"

"So he knew who you were immediately?"

The teen glared at his father. "I already said he did."

"Boss," Hickey began cautiously, taking an uneasy step towards them. "If the Assassins know 'bout 'im, and they be lookin' for 'im 'stead of you, wots the harm in finally initiating 'im? They already assume 'e's been initiated."

"No," Haytham immediately snapped back. "As much as I detest their ignorant plights, they're no fools to attack him so blatantly in the daylight. I have no doubts it served a purpose to test his training. And considering the state Ayden left Davenport in, I presume they'll get their answer."

Ayden narrowed a gaze at the mention of the name. He'd heard it before, possibly glanced at the name on parchment a few times. "Davenport? That was the name of the Assassin I fought?"

"Surname," Haytham corrected hesitantly. The topic skirted on delicate, highly-valued information that - in all rights - should've been kept tucked away from Ayden's innocent mind. There would be a time when such information would be paramount to his participation in the Order, but that time was not yet. Still, he figured the boy deserved some ounce of explanation. "His name is Connor Davenport. Son of the Grand Assassin, Achilles Davenport - he was trained since childhood, fed their incredulous lies."

"Son of the Master Assassin..." Ayden thought aloud, his brows brought together in thought as he recalled the man's - Connor's - impressive skill in hand-to-hand combat. "We are similar then."

Haytham's face hardened considerably. "No - you are nothing like that pathetic man."

Ayden ignored his father's grim tone. "But I do not understand... You have said these Assassins are bountiful, just like the Order. Why is this the first time I am meeting one?"

"They're rather skilled at masking their numbers," Haytham replied darkly, eyeing the teen's confused features. "As for never meeting one... well, you can thank me for keeping our family's whereabouts largely unknown. There is a reason I keep so many residences amongst the colonies."

The teen looked ill-content. "You think they were looking for you?"

"And you," Charles said in a low, cautious tone, his crisp accented words resonating profoundly. "Truly, boy, you think they would so much pass over a golden opportunity to end the life of the heir to the Templar rite?"

Being honest with himself, Ayden really hadn't considered how his eventual inheritance to the Order impacted his future; the time he would be called up to assume his father's role as a Grand Master seemed so very far away. Hell, he wasn't even a Templar yet! But his intense trainings and callous conditionings were by no degree light and useless; he was being groomed and primed for the greatness he would eventually grow into.

Blinking tiredly at the crackling flames in the fireplace, the teen held back a sigh of frustration. "So you have been keeping this information from me? When did you plan on telling me there were Assassins searching for us?"

The air felt thick, despite the once comfortable night. Eyeing his son, Haytham took in his tense shoulders. "You needn't worry about-"

"I am going to worry when it is our family at stake!" Ayden shot back, sending the elder Kenway a darkened look. "When I have a blade against my neck... do not tell me not to worry!"

"You were careless to follow Davenport in the first place," Haytham countered tersely. "And perhaps when you're able to spar without nearly getting yourself killed you can make demands for knowledge!"

"I did not see any of you follow him, let alone even notice him!"

"So you took it into your own, inexperienced hands to handle? It was foolish of you!"

"Inexperienced? _You_ trained me!"

Haytham released a tight sigh, running his hand over his haggard and worn features. As much as he wanted to argue with his wayward child, beat some ounce of sense into his stubborn front, he simply couldn't muster the mental and physical strength. The day's events were exhausting, having to watch helplessly as Benjamin labored over his wounded and unconscious son. Calmly looking up at the teen, the younger Kenway's features twisted in a fashion that suggested he was anything but calm, the Grand Master was surprised his own nerves weren't so panicked. Where he would normally deliver a debasing lecture possibly coupled with a few backhand swipes for good measure, he instead only fastened a calm look at the adolescent. "These Assassins have never so much stepped close to this house. You and your mother have _never_ been in such a vulnerable position as you were today. And as for today, that was all your doing, Ayden." He watched the boy uneasily break eye contact, glancing down at the smooth fabric on the couch. "This will be the last time I tell you this - do not meddle in these affairs again. Should you disrespect my order, I will no sooner send you to England to live with your aunt. You can attend Cambridge there."

Charles silently watched the exchange between the father and son, moving his inspecting gaze between the two Kenways. Shipping the insolent youth off would be preferred, but he didn't daresay his desire. The boy was always a distraction to their Grand Master, and it was only until recently did his budding strength finally serve a potential purpose to their cause. But despite his teenaged years doing him wonders physically and mentally, Haytham still refused to see or listen to reason; the boy was no longer a child. His years of training were finally resulting in his sculpturing of a perfect Templar, and Charles would guess the teen was even starting to take notice; his sudden interest in stretching his legs and testing out his skills evidence enough.

Had the boy been left to Charles' care, he'd be initiated immediately to their ranks.

"Yes, sir."

Haytham nodded acceptingly from the boy's cold response. Detachment and unease rested in the teen's fatigued gaze, gnawing at the elder Kenway's chest and tugging at his heart. A small grin moving across his features, he managed to catch his son's eye. "Though I must say, I think you left a rather good first impression with Davenport."

Pushing himself to sit on the arm of the couch, his legs straddling the luxurious furniture, Hickey chuckled darkly. "Ain't that right. They were carryin' 'im away last I saw of 'em. Dunno if he was alive or not, but I imagine his creed ain't gonna underestimate you in the future."

"It was rather an uplifting spectacle to see Davenport on the brink of death," Charles added, staring down at the teen with an odd sort of lightheartedness. "Though I would've preferred to see him dead than scrambling away."

As much as he enjoyed the change of conversation for the better, Ayden simply couldn't relish in the shared sentiment. When he was engaged with Connor in the heat of the battle, he reverted to a primitive, instinctive part of himself. His fierce actions were second nature; he hadn't hesitated when slamming the dagger through the Assassins shoulder. But that's what his father trained him for, wasn't it? To kill without at a moments notice. A hesitating hand results in disaster where a brawl is concerned. But if he didn't react in such a way, he would've been at the mercy of Connor; his hand was forced.

"Come on, you best be back to bed," Haytham said, interjecting in his musings, and gestured to the teen.

Nodding, Ayden grudgingly stood from the couch and made his way towards the foyer, sending the occasional nod of reverence to the Templars he passed. For a miniscule second he felt a part of their exclusive Order, talking amongst them about the Assassins. But the moment was preemptive, serving as simply a sliver of the future to come when he would formally take his place in the rite.

Mentally replaying the turbulent day and chaotic events with the Assassin, a thought sprang to Ayden's mind. Pausing in the doorway, he glanced back at his father. "I know you said not to become involved, but I have just one last question."

Haytham hesitated for a second. "Go on."

"This Assassin - Connor - does he have anything to do with the Assassin in the White Mountains?"

Another situation his son was suppose to steer clear from. But the boy seemed to understand his involvement was to be kept at a minimum; offering a bit of insight wouldn't be detrimental. "I wouldn't doubt it. Their recent numbers in Boston are cause for concern. I wouldn't pass it off as pure coincidence. But I have plans to discuss this more indepth with an associate in three nights from today."

Ayden frowned. "Three nights? Is that not the night of the play with mother?"

"Opera," Haytham corrected. "And yes, it is. The Hudsons will be accompanying us as well." Breaking, he saw the glint of interest that passed over the boy's eyes, doubtlessly suggesting the youth yearned for more questions to be answer. But Haytham's generosity was spent. "Now off with you."

Nodding reluctantly, Ayden took the sparse information he managed to get and made his way back to his bedroom, silently stalking down the hallway to ensure he didn't wake his mother. Slipping beneath the blanket and sheets with slow, cautious movements so as to reduce any strain on his wound, he allowed the overwhelming fatigue to spill into his mind and consume him. As trying of a day he had, he reveled in the plush comforts of his pillow and the whispering voices from the Templars below that offered a sense of security. Perhaps his father was right in a respect - he was foolish to run head first after Connor, the older man having obviously been privy to more seasons of training under his belt. And yet, Ayden took pride that he was able to hold his own, save for falling victim to the Assassin's prized hidden blade. If he'd been outfitted in his own hidden blade, he sincerely doubted the man would've limped away breathing.

* * *

When Ayden would travel back to his village, he'd come to expect that barrage of prying questions from the Native children. Did he really live in a stone village? Were there truly longhouses designated just for lessons to children, and did English children really have to sit through hours of lessons every day? Their inquisitiveness only soared to incredible heights after Ayden began arriving at the village in his colonial attire and later changing to his Native clothes there, such a decision based primarily off of his detesting the colonists' judgmental stare to his Indian garb. Patient and endearing as ever, the teen would put every effort into trying to sate their hungering desire for knowledge; he'd attempt to explain the ways of the English in terms they'd understand. Though sometimes the culture clashes were simply too severe that he was forced to abandon an explanation.

A colonial tavern was one of those instances. There was simply no way to explain a room full of drunken men drowning themselves in more alcohol, engaged in board games, and eyeing the fancy ladies in hungering lust, mentally counting their money to see if they could afford to bed one.

Sitting at a rounded oak table, Ayden glanced around the likes of the Green Dragon Tavern. It'd been two days since his run in with the Assassin, and his wound was healing at a snails pace. It didn't take long for restlessness to kick into high gear - and Ayden was finally allowed to leave his bed. The company he kept himself with was good, his friends - Oliver, Emmett, and Tommy - preoccupied by a lighthearted conversation about the passenger ship that made harbor earlier that evening. Or more precisely, the lovely young ladies the ship brought over. But in the densely packed tavern, where the ale never stopped flowing for the patrons and the air carried a musky scent of stale booze and body odor, there were no upstanding English women there. Moving his stare from the crowded wooden bar stools to the climbing staircase, the teen eyed the flock of prostitutes, their bosoms bursting from their reveling necklines of their ragged dresses. Gawdy make-up and disease infested mouths, he simply couldn't fathom the attraction to the revolting woman.

Perhaps that was one aspect of his Native roots he wouldn't let go; the sacredness of virginity and the integrity of woman as head of the household.

"So Ayden, which lovely one caught your fancy?"

Blinking in a momentary stupor, he glanced at a smirking Emmitt. "Hm?"

"C'mon now," Tommy interjected, a sloppy grin spread on his face. Pausing to take a generous gulp out of the metal tankard before him, he greedily drank the bitter ale. "This is Ayden we're talking about - he's never so much had a girl alone!"

"By choice," the Native teen shot back. "Look at them." He gestured to the fancy ladies, who shook their pouring out chests to a band of interested clients. "Covered in vermin. And the white men call my relatives savages?"

"They're not _that_ bad," Tommy replied. "Once you... look beyond the sores around their mouths."

Ayden lifted a brow. "That is pretty bad."

Emptying his glass, Oliver gestured to the tavern maid for another round, not missing the suggestive wink as their eyes met. "Careful now, Ayden. Tommy has a thing going with a call girl from Hatch's Tavern."

Ayden quirked a brow up. "The tavern on Tremont and Mason?"

"Aye, that's the one."

"Hey now," Tommy interjected, haphazardly dropping his empty tankard on the wooden table. But with the bustle of the evening crowd, it was hardly noticed. "Chastity is doing a different trade! She gave up that business. She's a respectable woman now!"

"Right..." Oliver sent the brunette a condescending look. "I saw you scratching like mad the other day."

"Anyways," Emmitt interjected roughly, sending a brief demeaning and judgmental stare at their crude friend. His gaze softening significantly, he glanced at Ayden. "Do you have any plans for the summer before you start your classes at Harvard - which I'm still jealous they accepted you, by the way. I wasn't even invited for a meeting with Locke."

Sipping the foaming top of his ale, Ayden was tempted to point out that his father wasn't the leader of a secretive brotherhood Locke just happened to be a part of. But considering Oliver was the only one at the table who knew of the Order, he was mindful to keep such thoughts to himself. Over the course of the past decade he'd concealed the truth of his father's wealth and profession, simply divulging that he ran negotiations with traders in the colonies and back in London. A part of the forced fib was somewhat true; his father did have a hand in the lucrative trading business, but it most definitely wasn't his only obligation. But the lies and secrets were needed, no matter how much the teen loathed being dishonest with his two friends. Oliver made a fine point several years back when Ayden confessed his detestment for the fibs, when he was all to ready to divulge the truth to his friends. His older friend, who may have already been initiated but didn't tell Ayden yet, cautiously explained that spreading the news of the Templars Order to more people only increased the dire chance of such words reaching none to gentle ears. Or more specifically, the revolting rivals of the Assassins.

And so, Ayden grudgingly assumed a third lifestyle to add to his colonial and Native identities, the truth of his different personas tucked away into the back of his mind.

Pulling himself back to the present, he placed his pint glass down and ignored the second half of his friend's comment. "I guess I am visiting the village. My mother said we will be there for at least a couple months."

Shifting over slightly to make room for the new round of tankards placed on the tables, Oliver happily eyed the glasses filled to the brim with frothy beer. They were young, and so was the night. Sending a gracious smile at Wendy, the young tavern wench who tended to linger over to their normal table, he watched her lithe and curvy form make her way back to the bar, doubtless tending to other needy patrons. "The village? I thought you were staying here this summer. You know, get one last stretch of freedom before drowning in your studies."

The Native teen shrugged, despite his own inner turmoil at the situation. "So did I. My mother thinks it would be _good_ for me."

"What about your dad?" Emmitt pressed, chugging the bitter booze. "What does he think?"

"He is coming with, actually."

Looking deeply discontent and dejected, Oliver narrowed his skeptical gaze on his younger friend, hoping his cryptic words would relay his true intent. "Your father? If he's going to upstate New York, who's going to oversee the, um, trade contracts? My father mentioned there was some... pressing business as of late."

Tommy sighed heavily. "Are we really going to discuss that shit tonight?"

For a split second, Oliver was tempted to shoot a silencing glare at their rough friend, but he quickly stopped himself; as much as he wanted to, he wouldn't discount his friend for his blissful ignorance to the truth behind their fathers' shared business. But he couldn't ignore the sheer facts laid out, the implications hanging dreadfully in the air. Nor could he ignore the pressing matter he'd learned only hours ago that he felt confident the younger Kenway would value greatly. The possibility of the two events being connected was overbearing, and as much as he told himself he'd remain uninvolved from his friend's Indian culture - covertly at odds ends with fighting for Ayden's attention from his Native friend - Oliver cherished the younger teen's respect.

Oliver forced a smile on his face. "You're right - let's enjoy the night while we have it. Won't be too long before Ayden's nose deep in books again." Pausing, he shared a quick look of uncertainty with the Indian teen. "This ale just isn't doing it. Wendy looks mighty preoccupied - how about we grab a round of something a bit stronger?"

Quickly understanding - their unspoken communication well-honed over the years - Ayden nodded in agreement and stood to follow his older friend. Considering the immediate, excited requests of hard liquor from Emmitt and Tommy, he doubted they took notice, or even care, to the mere chance of an ulterior motive. But Oliver was silent as they both navigated through the crowded tavern, weaving between hordes of drunken patrons and dodging generously pushed out chairs from the tables. As they came to the shoddily constructed bar, the warped wooden surface sticky with spilled booze, the duo found a secluded corner.

Gesturing to the bartender and receiving a nod from the crusty retired sailor, Oliver took a quick inventory of the figures that sat around the bar, his gaze lingering on each of their intoxicated features for a few long seconds. The faces were imprinted in his mind, tucked away for safe keeping should he need the information later. And such an action came nearly second-nature, his own father's conditioning in the ways of the Order dictating much of his daily activities and sculpting him for the waging war between the Assassins and Templars. But his father was no Haytham Kenway - no one in the Order could amount to the ruthlessness of their fearless Grand Master.

Eyeing the Native teen before him, Oliver could only fathom the similar trainings Ayden was subject to. His upper torso already showed telltale evidence of physically-grueling lessons, his young adolescent body beginning to show what would eventually became a built body structure. Of course, he hadn't a clue what Ayden was privy to when spending time in the course wilderness with his people, going through the motions of his more primitive family to survive; his time there doubtlessly only fed into his budding physique. And rightfully so - since Oliver was a child and learned of the secretive Order, his father's role and the respective other Templars, he slowly began connect the dots for Ayden's esteemed future. An heir to a lucrative brotherhood, the Indian teen would one day take his rightful place as his father's successor.

"We need to talk," Oliver said, all hints of amusement and fun gone from his voice. Ayden narrowed his gaze questioningly while one of his hands fell to his hip; Oliver could only assume it instinctively grabbed at his dagger at his words. "I don't know how much you're following with the Order, but I think something's going to happen that'll make you mighty pissed."

Ayden lifted a brow, his interest piqued, and allowed his empty hand to fall to his side. He loathed having the covert discussion in the vulnerability of a bloody tavern, but the luxury of sneaking away alone wasn't feasible. Unless they wanted to dish out a generous coin for one the vile rooms on the second floor - the sheer thought of the filthy conditions making him shiver - they were damned to low voices and cryptic words. "About the person that stabbed me in the alley?"

Oliver shook his head. "All I heard about that was you had a brush with... one of _them_. I haven't heard anything since. My information is kind of... under the rug, so to speak. Let's just say that my father trusts me with more information than he probably should."

"Wait... you have not been initiated?"

The older teen sighed heavily. "No oath taken yet." He paused, eyeing his friend for a long while before dropping his voice to a dangerous whisper. "They're waiting on you, Ayden. We're going to be initiated together, but not until your father thinks you're ready."

It wasn't news to the Native teen - hell, he knew long ago that one day he'd proudly bear the insignia of the Order. But where did the time go? "When?"

"I don't know, sooner rather than later. They mentioned something about your sixteenth birthday, probably waiting till after you get settled at Harvard. Your father is pretty adamant about not rushing you, but Charles... he's been pushing and pushing for months. But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about," Oliver replied tediously. "There's been some... activity, you can say, in the White Mountains."

Ayden nodded. Immediately his father's cautioning words echoed in his thoughts, but he so easily discarded them. "I heard. They're trying to have peace talks with the Tuscarora."

Oliver released a dark chuckle. "Is that what they told you? I wouldn't exactly call a band of armed mercenaries 'peace talks'." The Native teen's face washed over with a dismal, sickened look. "I don't think your father knows yet. See, it's all Charles' plan if the Tuscarora don't yield - he said something about their time running out or something. Whatever is at the top of the mountain must be mighty important to wipe out an entire tribe."

"Nothing is that important," Ayden snapped back. "That Nation is weary of colonists because of men like Charles! Forcing them is not going to make a difference!"

"That's why I'm telling you this. I don't know - maybe with your heritage and everything, you can do something about it. Just figured you wouldn't be too happy about it." Breaking as the bartender dropped four small tumblers filled with dark brown booze, Oliver exchanged the man a few coins. His eyes lingered on the bartender's back as he slowly sauntered away to carry out his other duties, the Templar-in-training not continuing until he felt there was a safe distance. "I thought the Tuscarora are part of the Iroquois Confederacy."

Sipping the crude hard liquor, the bitter liquid splashing the back of his unsuspecting throat, Ayden coughed and sputtered a bit. Ignoring the amused grin from his friend, he took a second experimental sip, this time forcing himself to swallow the booze. "They joined the league my people are in pretty recently. I have met them but... they did not consider me Native enough with my mixed blood. They will not talk to me." He shook his head dejectedly, a twinge of a humiliated flush creeping on his tanned cheeks. "Oliver... I-I cannot get involved in this stuff anymore. My father is ready to send me to live with my aunt if I go against his wishes. And I really do not want to make good on his word."

"Your aunt? From the village?"

The younger teen shook his head. "England."

Understanding dawned heavily on Oliver, and though he longed for more answers, he didn't press for any. The trounced and defeated look in his best friend's gaze was enough to deter him. "Well, they have a meeting about the Tuscarora tomorrow night. Maybe you can offer some inside knowledge to the culture. God knows you're probably the best resource for it."

Ayden merely nodded and grabbed one of the filled tumblers then fell into step beside his friend as they weaved back towards their table. As much as he silently scolded himself to remain distanced from the situation, to ignore the looming callousness that would unquestioningly fall upon the Tuscarora, he simply couldn't. The paltry freedom and integrity the tribe in the White Mountains managed to secure would be unceremoniously ripped from them, and all for what purpose? To scale the mountain in search of an Assassin they _thought _resided there? Was the lives of so many innocent Natives worth chasing a presumption? And perhaps more disheartening, he knew if he'd broached his virtuous mindset to his father and the other Templars he would simply be shrugged away as idealistic and naive. But that's what the harshness of the world had conditioned the men to assume - that the value of a life was fickle and only worthy on the color of the skin, or the alignment of their ideological pool. Faced with his own choice, Ayden had to question himself if his forbidden involvement to save an entire tribe was worth the damning punishment of living in England. Leagues away from his village, his family, and his friends, he'd be thrust into a novel world he'd never experienced before, relying on only the tales from his father about the overcrowded streets of London, or Charles' few paltry stories of the rolling meadows in Cheshire.

As much as he loathed the dismal ending of his forced relocation, the harsh reality of the price he'd pay was worth it.

* * *

As serene as the late spring night was, Ayden was anything but calm. His heart racing madly in his chest while he sat uneasily at the worn wooden table in the Hudson's garden, he silently cursed his father for demanding him to wait outside while he completed his work with Mr. Hudson and the few other Templars; apparently the Grand Master had his fill of Ayden's Native insight for the Tuscarora and any similarities their desolate culture had with his own tribe. The meeting at the Hudson estate had seemed so perfect; Mrs. Hudson and majority of the children were visiting family in New York for a night. As the meeting was also to cover content regarding the troubled tea trade industry - Mr. Hudson's division of specialty - the placement of the meeting simply made sense to have it at the empty estate.

But it was _mostly_ empty. Much to Ayden's surprise and eventual dismay, the eldest Hudson daughter remained in Boston with her older brother and father. And she wasn't saved from the Templars order of vacating the premises to conduct their enigmatic convening.

The figure beside him shifted, the wooden bench they both shared moving slightly at the action and grabbing the Indian teen's attention. Not that the person ever failed in that respect; quite contrary, his eyes wanted to physically to her as much as his thoughts did. But he had reserve and decency.

"You can go home, you know."

Blinking hard, his palms clammy, he glanced at the prime English girl that sat only inches next to him. Illuminated only by brilliant moon and glittering stars overhead, her plain yet delicate features looked soft and fragile. Though he'd grown up with Grace, his thoughts riddled with numerous memories of getting into trouble as children - climbing trees, running into far too many Redcoats, wrecking havoc in their homes - she looked nothing like the boisterous girl from those memories. Her blonde hair was tucked away into a tight, neat bun on the back off her head, hidden by a white cap. The white and light blue colors of her bodice and outer dress looked dulled by the intimate lighting, though didn't rob it of the beauty.

Pulling himself back to the present, he lifted a brow. "Home?"

Grace's soft sapphire eyes held his chocolate ones for a few seconds. Grinning, she leaned back against the edge of the table behind them, her gaze slowly lingering up the clear night sky. "Yeah, home. You know, that place you live right over there. You don't have to stay."

"I want to," he replied immediately, the slight unnerve drawing not only his surprise but also hers. He was quick to continue. "Just in case my father needs me with the, um, trade documents."

Her grin didn't lessen. "We both know they're not talking about the tea. It's never been about the tea."

"It hasn't?"

Slowly her grin dissolved from her face, though her gaze didn't turn to meet his; a small miracle he was thankful for. Lying to her was never a feat easily done, and definitely not something he hoped to do in their nerve-wracking time together. "Please, don't you lie to me too. I know, Ayden. I've known about their brotherhood for years." She paused for a few seconds, but for the Native, it felt like an eternity until she continued. "A brotherhood that you'll inherit one day."

Suddenly, Ayden's chest felt loads lighter, as though an overbearing burden was lifted from him. "You know? Did your father tell you?"

She shook her head softly, a stray blonde lock falling free from the bonnet from the action. "Don't be ridiculous. He wouldn't trust me with that kind of information - not that I could do anything with it. But he expects me to clean his study, tidy his papers without seeing the words on them?"

"So you have known for a while, yet you have said nothing?"

"Why would I?" She countered, a darkness clouding her voice. "So that I'm kept even more in the dark? I play into his assumption that I'm mindless." She paused, a low sigh escaping her rouge lips. "I don't know why I'm telling you all of this. One day you'll turn into one of them too - think your wife is nothing more than an accessory in your household."

Ayden frowned deeply, his head shaking immediately. "No! I do not think that at all." Breaking as he thought about his parents' unique, multi-cultural relationship, he couldn't resist a soft, ironic snort. "You see, in my village it is women that are considered head of the households. The men can serve on the Elder council but our _Oiá:ner_ - um, clan mother - is always female."

Immediately snapping her eyes from the harmonious night sky over to him, Grace's serene features looked skeptical. "No men deciding how long their daughters will be in school, when they decide they've been educated enough, or how about choosing their husbands? Do the men still do that in your village?"

The unresolved anger and underlying scathe in her tense voice didn't go unchecked; it seemed so atypical for her normally tranquil and collected demeanor. But seeing her upset - the moonlight cast on her face illuminating the twinge of flush on her cheeks and her face contorted into a look of reserved frustrations - sent a jolt of excitement down Ayden's spine. And for a split second, he considered fanning the fire if only to keep her in such a heated attitude. But as quickly as the thought came, it was swept away with his gentleman manners. "It is ironic, actually. The men are expected to be warriors for the village and to hunt." A lighthearted chuckle made it past his lips. "I guess you can say we are used for our strength while the women are responsible for less manual duties. Um... education... it is not like Boston. There are no school houses or even school days. There are lessons but it is less... organized."

The lingering rage in her gaze slowly simmered down, replaced with an unmasked interest. "No schooling? Then what do you learn at the lessons?"

"Well, ways to help the village. Reading and writing in Kanien'kehá:ka and some arithmetic but not much. There are not much novels or literature to read- most of our stories are passed down through talking. Um... as children get older, they take more lessons from adults around the village. I guess it is kind of like an apprenticeship."

"Did you apprentice in anything?"

Ayden shrugged. "Not really. I know the trees very well, and how to use a bow and arrow, so I hunt a lot."

Her stare softening significantly, Grace lightly eyed the Native teen in a dramatic examining fashion, a small grin tugging at her lips. "You hunting? I mean no disrespect, Ayden, but I have such a troublesome time trying to imagine you back as the dirty little Indian neighbor boy you were years ago."

Had it been anyone else, he would've taken offense. Instead he sheepishly smiled, the sheer notion of her thoughts consumed with him the only factor on the forefront of his tender, inexperienced mind. "Again, very ironic. The people from my tribe say the same about me being a colonist. And if both worlds think that, I guess I have been successful at leading a double life."

"For what it's worth, I like hearing about your village and their customs - especially if the women are given an ounce of respect," Grace replied lightly, a heartwarming smile contrasting with his sudden downcast eyes. "And you used to talk about it all the time when we were kids, but not anymore... I can't remember the last time you really mentioned your visits there."

He hesitated for a moment, tediously handpicking his words from his years of experience in juggling the two worlds the made up his life, that sculpted and molded him into concealing the two identifies from each other. "When I was a child, everything was so much simpler, or maybe I just looked at the world simpler. Now though... I understand the colonists will never see my people as anything more than forest-dwelling savages. And my people have been wronged too many times to make amends with the colonists. So when I am here, I'm Ayden Kenway. And when I am in the village, I am Ratonhnhaké:ton."

"No matter how many times you say that name, I don't think I'll ever get it," she contently said. Her posture relaxed, she propped her back against the table again, straining her neck to see the picturesque night sky above. A comfortable silence enveloped the teens for minutes, only the melodic harmony of the crickets and nocturnal owls creating a background of music. Straining her trained eyes on the constellations the dazzled in the sky overhead, Grace pointed an excited digit to a particularly bright grouping of brilliant stares. "Look. The Big Dipper. Looks like its almost at its highest point in the sky just in time for summer."

"Oh yeah." Following her pointed finger, Ayden immediately found the collection of the one large grouping of stars that made a squares-shaped mass, while three stars lingered in its stead. Her tender words circulating in his head, he meticulous treaded on a subject he once deemed taboo; the intermixing of his worlds. "In my village, we call that Nya'kwaeheko:wa:h, or Great Naked Bear."

Abandoning her star gazing, Grace lifted a brow at the Native teen. "Nay-gay -what?"

Her butchering of the language didn't faze him in the least; if anything, he reveled in the sound of her voice speaking his native tongue, despite the sincere lack of experience in using it. "Nyah-gweah-heh-goh-wah," he replied slowly.

"Nyah-gwe...ah-heh...go-ah?"

He shrugged. "Not bad." Considering the brightness of excitement that crossed over her features, he didn't have the heart to tell her she missed essential punctuations; it wasn't as if she'd ever have to speak the Mohawk language in context anyways. Besides himself, he doubted she ever actual spoke to a Native, raised within a protective, sheltered life in Boston.

"Great Naked Bear? What does that mean?"

He glanced back up at the sky, eyeing the constellation in question, his mind unknowingly recalling his long nights spent in the village, gathered around a thriving fire and hearing old tales from the Elders. "It is a story my people tell about the constellation."

"Knowing our fathers, we could be sitting out here all night. Tell me it, if you wouldn't mind."

"Um, sure..." he uneasily replied, blinking up at the ebony heavens above. "There was a Great Bear, Nya'kwaeheko:wa:h, that called the forests his home. He left the villages alone but because he kept growing larger and larger, he began to eat all of the deer and animals in the forest. So the villagers started to starve - they had no food for the winter months. Finally, the villagers had enough so they sent out their warriors to track and kill the bear."

"Did they kill it?"

He grinned at the latent excitement in her voice. "No, their arrows pierced the bear but the bear did not die. The village sent groups of warriors to try to kill this bear but all of the failed and many did not even return. The villagers thought all was lost until three brothers all had the same dream one night that they killed the bear. So the next morning they gathered their bows and arrows and set off to track and find the bear. They tracked it all over the lands until they hit the edge of the world."

"Edge of the world?"

He sent her a look at her condescending tone. "Hey, these stories were created before Columbus proved that theory wrong. Can I tell the story?"

She chuckled. "Please, continue."

"Well, the brothers saw the bear jump from the edge of the world into Karonhià:ke, or the heavens or sky-world. So the brothers all jumped after the bear, with their bows drawn. And so, they will forever be chasing Nya'kwaeheko:wa:h in the heavens and we will watch. You see that big part of the constellation? That's the bear. And the three stars after it are the brothers."

Looking up at the stars, Grace smiled like a school girl, eating up the new tale. "Do the brothers ever get the bear?"

"No but they are close. Every fall season, their arrows pierce the bear and the bear falls further down in the sky. His blood drips from the heavens and coats the leaves in red. That is why the leaves change in the fall."

Turning back to her friend, a look of excitement and surprise was painted on her fair features. "That was a great story, Ayden. Does your village have a lot of stories like that? To explain phenomena?"

He didn't care if his delivery of his people's prized fable was lacking, all he noticed from the shine of happiness in her eyes, and that was enough to satisfy him. "Kind of. Though I am not the best at telling stories - guess I will never be cut out for being an Elder in the village. They are usually the story tellers." And caught up in his momentary high, reveling in her attention and thrill, the words spilled from his mouth without a second thought. "Maybe I can take you there some day, so that you can hear the stories from the Elders in the right way."

All hints of amusement was suddenly and unexpectedly washed away from Grace's face, her eyes strangely hardening with seriousness and her expression becoming somber. Leaning forward slightly, closing the generous gap that once made a river between them on the picnic bench, the rest of her body inched closer to his. "Can you do that? Can you take me to your village?"

Only a mere few inches between them, he would swear she could hear the pitter patter of his turbulent heart, the blood coursing rapidly in his veins with exhilaration. He couldn't remember the last time he was so close to her - not since they received the respected ages of puberty and assumed their rightful roles of decency in the Boston society of the elite. But so close to her, the smell of her lemongrass wash bar filling his senses, he was lost in the abyss of her deep ocean blue eyes, the vigor and life in the orbs swirling with ferocity. Such drive he'd seldom see amongst the Bostonites, their grueling lifestyles claiming much of their energies. But not Grace. She seemed endless with her innovation that years ago used to get her in far to much trouble in their grammar school, her creative mind considered outspoken for gentry women of the affluent colonists.

Blinking as he focused only on her face, her delicate pale features that contrasted so much to his own, he drowned out everything else. "I-I can ask. I would need permission to bring you."

She bit her lower lip, either out of anxiety or in a poor attempt to quell her words that begged to spill out. Leaning in closer to him, she turned her head so her satiny cheek brushed against his course one, her mouth close to his ear. "In one year. I want to go with you in a year after my debutante."

And it seemed that when drowning everything out, he hadn't heard the sound of the door opening and closing from the estate. Nor had he heard the sound of two footsteps that now stood several meters from them.

"Ayden!"

"Grace!"

His father's strict, firm voice sending tendrils of alarm down his spine, Ayden was ripped from his momentary elation; Mr. Hudson's strained tone only added to his duress. Instinctively jumping up as Grace sloppily slid a generous few feet down the bench, the sincere inappropriateness of their proximity slammed harshly into him. Swallowing repeatedly, his face flushing madly at the graveness of the situation, the teen felt his heart plummet into his chest at the looks from his father and Mr. Hudson.

Opening and closing his mouth several times in a poor effort to will words to form, he did his best to act normal, though the nervous twinge in his voice was as painfully evident as the light of day. "So, um, did you finish?"

Haytham lifted a brow. "Did you?" Even in the dense of night, Haytham saw the boy visibly pale, his nervous eyes darting between Mr. Hudson expectantly and him. "Have a nice chat, did you?"

"We were just talking - I was telling her about the stars - we were not- "

"_Tohsa sata:ti. Ha' ki' ó:nen tsitiahtén:ti._" (**Don't talk. Let's go home now.**) Haytham replied darkly, his authoritative tone leaving little to no room for further discussion. Despite his relatively new acquisition of the Indian language, his poor use of the accent callously obvious to the Native teen, he spurred the foreign tongue with such ferocity it made Mr. Hudson lift an impressive brow. As his son immediately nodded obediently, surely relishing in his excuse to slide out of Mr. Hudson's intense glare, the Grand Master sent a tight grin to his fellow Templar. "I shall reconvene with you tomorrow evening for the opera, Eric. And after seeing this rather enlightening spectacle, I'll be sure to keep my hormonal son on a sincerely tight leash."

"Yes, well, I'll be having a similar discussion with Grace," Mr. Hudson said, sending a leveling stare at Grace, who obstinately gazed back, seemingly unaffected by the threat. "It seems she'll be needing that finishing school in the Hamptons this summer."

Ayden fell into step beside his father as the two made their way through the Hudson yard towards their own estate, their travels uncomfortably silent and tense. And as they made the final turn towards the house, he didn't send departing words or a glance to Grace; he didn't dare chance the ultimate wrath of the Templars. Though he felt fairly certain he couldn't easily overpower Mr. Hudson, his protocols of respect ran deep in him. But his father... he probably wouldn't stand a chance with the hidden blades on his wrist.

After waiting for his father to pull open the front door, Ayden grudgingly enter the homestead. His mother was already fast asleep, the dimly lit house evidencing such. Just as the heavy oak door swung shut, clasping with a resolute click, he made a beeline for the stairs with an impressive pace, hoping to side step the unbearable blunt of one of his father's finer lectures and reprimands. But his plight of freedom was suddenly ripped out from under him as a firm, unyielding hand shot out and grabbed his bicep, and gave a forceful yank backwards, pulling him off the first step of the stairs.

Preemptively letting go of the teen, Haytham glared down into his son's blank face. But his eyes gave him away - they always did. "So, when's the wedding?"

The boy sent him a deadpanned look. "And you accuse _me_ of being overdramatic." But his father looked painfully unconvinced. "Come now, father. This is me we are talking about. I actually respect women and value purity before a matrimonial ceremony."

Haytham lifted a brow. "I can only imagine that was a poorly aimed jab at me. Let me remind you, my o' so virtuous offspring, that had I harbored such a naïve mantra, you wouldn't be standing here."

"So you are saying I should bed Grace?"

"Your development of warping my words is an annoying tactic your mother likes to rely on. And considering she still relies on it, I can only fathom you won't grow out of it. But that won't stop me attempting to lash the brazen attitude from you. Care to change your tone?"

"Well, what else am I supposed to assume? I imagine you will lecture me on my inappropriate behavior tonight, and yet you make a ridiculing comment about my decision to remain untouched until marriage?" Ayden tossed his hands up in the air. "I do not understand you."

"Women of status such as Grace are not mere street wenches, Ayden," Haytham replied tensely. "I know I skimped out of my fatherly duty of giving you the speech of the birds and bees, but truly, I thought you better of this."

"We were just talking! I do not know how else to get that through to you!"

"Well, being discovered rather intimately close probably isn't the best way." Haytham paused for a moment, glaring down into the boy's irksome features, the hard-set eyes an eerie mirror of his own. But he'd be a fool to say he was surprised by the progressive intertwining relationship between the two teens; since the days of their childhood, him and Eric would toss around the occasional lighthearted joke regarding their boisterous children. Those days were easier, their children were more manageable and simple, preoccupied by their innocent games. But as they aged and grew into their respective genders, the two naturally distanced their friendship. Reigning societal norms pulled and manipulated their relationship, and as the racing pubescent hormones settled into the teens, Haytham knew right away their once blissful friendship was over.

Smiling lightly, Haytham lifted a daring brow. "You know, you are nearing your sixteenth birthday. Though I wouldn't push you into this decision, Eric has mentioned he's been approached by suitors for Grace."

Ayden blinked back. "Suitors?"

"Suitors, courtship..." The teen looked annoyingly bemused. The Grand Master released a thick, heavy sigh. "Really? Marriage, boy! Eric has been entertaining offers of courtship for Grace from men. She's still to have her debutante if a suitor isn't already chosen by then. So... knowing this..." Haytham paused, his mind fervently questioning why the conversation was so bloody difficult. His blasted father had long passed by the time he was supposed to be on the receiving end of such a conversation, which left him to his own devices. "You wouldn't be outspoken to approach Mr. Hudson as a suitor. Of course the logistics of the future would need to be discussed in great lengths, but that would be- "

"Wait, stop!" the boy interrupted. "I am even more confused! Just seconds ago you were lecturing me about being too intimate, and now you are saying I should ask permission to court her? How much did you drink tonight?"

"Ayden," Haytham started, an amused grin tugging at his lips. The panic-laced voice from his son was all the proof he needed that he wasn't ready for even considering a lifelong commitment. But that didn't cut it out completely. Perhaps in a few years. "I'm not suggesting you rush her to the church tomorrow to be wed! These arrangements take time. Courtship and what not. And even after the courtship, considering your ages and the beginning of your career, Mr. Hudson may prefer you two actually wait a few years before getting married. I'm simply saying - don't discard the idea entirely."

"I never said I would," Ayden replied rather hastily, making his father send him one of his trademark condescending smirks and his own cheeks became heated with flushed embarrassment. "I-I will think about it. Can we talk about it again later, like in a few months... or a few years?"

"You have a year," Haytham pointed out. "At her debutante, Mr. Hudson will decide a suitor for her if arrangements aren't already made."

The teen nodded vigorously, already itching to race up the stairs to escape the uncomfortable conversation. "Fine, a year then." His hand already resting longingly on the staircase railing, he attempted to disregard the nights peculiar events and the strange conversation with his father. Of course marriage would eventually come; he'd always assumed he'd take a wife at some point, though he honestly couldn't picture if she'd be English or Mohawk. When he was younger he imagined himself residing primarily in a longhouse nestled on the placid lake, the sounds of the eagles overhead waking him up in the morning to see his family. Strangely, though, the vision warped over the years, and he began noticing the location shift dramatically. The fabricated longhouse was replaced with an estate in New York or Philadelphia. And on more than one occasion, he imagined a colonist as his spouse, especially one specific colonist...

"The information you provided about the Tuscarora was somewhat helpful," Haytham said, ripping him from his thoughts. Gesturing to follow him up the stairs, the duo were sure to keep their voices low in fear of waking Ziio. "We'll see if it actually results in a peaceful treaty of sorts. This Assassin in the Mountains wasn't supposed to be so troublesome."

Reaching the top of the stairs, the father and son turned right and softly made their way down the hall, stopping at the bedroom nestled on the right. Turning into his room, Ayden paused in the doorway, his eyes stormy as a battle raged within him. "What if the talks do not work?"

Haytham sent the boy a stern look through the shadows. "My answer hasn't changed, Ayden. You're still not to interfere- "

"I know that," he curtly replied in a low whisper. "But if the talks do not work, then what?"

"Then I suppose we'll have to climb up the less accessible route. If you're fishing for an answer, I'm not seeing your angle."

"I just want to make sure that you are not planning to harm them," the teen replied honestly, earning him a firm look from his father. "Do not forget that they are part of the same league my people are from. If the Tuscarora are harmed, and word gets back to my village that the Order or you were involved... they will not trust you again, and maybe not even me."

"Just trust me and my decisions, Ayden." But the boy didn't look convinced, his eyes guarded and dark. "And keep in mind that once you are formally initiated, these little talks and demands won't be tolerated. You may be my son, but I'll expect the same respect from you as any other Templar."

"But that is not happening for a long-time, according to you. So I should take advantage of it now," Ayden replied a small grin.

"Get some sleep," Haytham replied lightly, ignoring the amusing prod from his wayward offspring, and turned from the doorway. But he didn't get far before a quiet voice pulled him back.

"Father... would you really send me to England?"

Leaning back towards the open doorway, Haytham glanced into his son's face, taking in his tired, genuine features, no hint of mockery or amusement. For years the Grand Master had plans to travel across the expansive oceans to visit his elder sister and extended family; his cousins and their children still in the affluent districts of London. The incredible demands of his esteemed leadership role came with its down falls, especially where his family was concerned. The years rolled by uncaringly, each of the planned trips rescheduled to a distant time when he hoped to be free of his pressing work. And yet, despite every accommodation he tried to make to ensure they'd manage the trip, his son had yet to step foot in the country that made up the other part of his heritage. Cancelling the trip wasn't so much problematic as it was frustrating, but Haytham truly began to loath writing the letters to his sister explaining they wouldn't be arriving in London, that their trip was delayed yet again. But despite the unkind tradition of never following through, his sister, Jenny, still pressed him to visit every year, even going so far as to suggest seeing her nephew and sister-in-law if he couldn't manage the time from work.

Setting his jaw, Haytham blinked at the teen. "Do you think I would?"

Ayden hesitated for a moment. "I-I do not know."

"Well, then lets not find out - simply _stay_ out of these affairs and we need not revisit this, hm?" Haytham replied, but the boy didn't look convince. The troublesome look in his gaze only seeped into the elder Kenway's nerves, making him frown deeply. Why couldn't the teen follow a simple order?

And that would be a question Haytham would fervently ask himself in a week's time, when his world would crash down before him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks for the awesome reviews and words! **

**Happy reading! **

* * *

The night was incredibly hot, his tan skin clammy and sweaty. But it wasn't the mounting heat that pulled Ayden from the depths of his sleep. No - it was the intruder that stood at the foot of his bed.

Flipping over on his side nonchalantly, Ayden delivered a near perfect act of sleeping, though his movements were anything but innocent; every action was precise, every movement calculated. His left arm innocently pushed the sheet damp with his sweat further down his hips, beyond the small bandage on his side and past the waistband on his breeches. Leaving his naked torso and back vulnerable to the mysterious man in his bedroom, the adolescent grudgingly swallowed the risky behavior; all to strengthen his feign, his attempt to ruin the man's once-advantageous element of surprise.

Heart racing rapidly, Ayden forced himself to patiently wait while he heard - nay, more _felt -_ the man's boot steps come closer to his bed, tediously closing the generous gap between them. The steps were of impressive control, the assailants mindfulness to attempt to sway his weight in an effort to creep up on the teen. But Ayden knew better - he was trained better. For a fleeting moment he considered calling out for his parents, but a harsh reminder slammed down into him - they were at the dreaded play with the fellow Templars, leaving only him and enigmatic intruder to face each other.

Equipped with over a decade of harsh conditioning and callous regimes, Ayden allowed his mind to be consumed with the teachings of his father, allowed his limbs to be control by his more instinctive manners and nerves. An unusual heat wave consuming the spring night, the teen opted to sleep with his window open; a decision he didn't make lightly. And apparently, a decision that had cost him greatly, even his potential life

HIs right hand already snaked beneath the pillow, Ayden wrapped his digits around the cool handle of his dagger as the mattress behind him sunk in from added weight. But he was ready for the assailant. The noise of something thin slicing through air was the first sound that alerted Ayden's innate alarms, and before his mind could comprehend what was happening, his right hand flew out from beneath his pillow and drove to the side, the edge of the steel blade making a sounding clash with the blade of his assailant. Moving with impressive dexterity, the teen's curled left arm snapped backwards and up, his elbow eliciting a satisfying crunch as it collided with the intruder's nose.

But his triumph was short-lived.

The man behind him made an angered low growl and jumped over the side of the bed, though his free hand viciously grabbed a fistful of Ayden's hair, the boy all but being dragged from the warmth of his bed. Taken by utter surprise, the teen stumbled forward, guided by the callous grip, though the dagger in his hand didn't drop; not even when he forcibly was thrown against the wall, his bare chest throbbing at the harsh impact that forced all the air from his lungs. But he was quick to retaliate.

His back turned to the man, the adolescent took a daring slice with his dagger behind him. Somehow his sharpened blade sliced through something. While it felt nothing of flesh, it did enough to startle the assailant, his hand dropping the boy's hair. Huffing and puffing, his blood coursing with adrenaline, the teen reveled in the natural high of the altercation, the fatal encounter rousing his trainings and teachings.

Quickly turning around, Ayden lifted his own blade, prepared to deliver the final blow. But the man wasn't having any of it. No longer startled, the intruder was instilled with his own turbulent adrenaline, his seasoned limbs energized to perfection. And as Ayden met the steel eyes of his assailant, recognizing the ruthlessness in those cold orbs, he knew he was feebly fighting a losing battle.

He should've suspected something when the man's hands were free of a dagger. A hidden blade.

Suddenly a hand shot forward and grabbed Ayden's throat, slamming him remorselessly against the wall. A second hand fiercely grabbed his wrist that housed the dagger and slammed it against his head on the wall, the incredible strength earning a degrading moan from the teen and the shameful sound of the dagger falling from his abused wrist and landing unceremoniously on the wooden floor boards. The brutal digits around his neck tightened relentlessly, cutting off the precious supply of air from his hungered, begging lungs.

But he wouldn't go down without a final try.

Just as the edges of his vision started to turn dark, Ayden swung his leg up, his impeccable aim not steering him wrong in the compromising situation. As his leg collided with the sensitive region between his assailant's legs, he was rewarded with an audible grunt from the man and the hands that vacated his body, the instinctive nature of bending protectively into himself offering Ayden a small window of opportunity. Dropping down to the floor, he briskly grabbed his dagger and made a sideways slice into the man as he stood up.

But the assailant was significantly more seasoned in the art of hand to hand combat, his impressive years in such a situation exceeding Ayden's mere age. In retrospect, the teen shouldn't have been surprised when the intruder dodged the attack and grabbed the adolescent's forearm, ruthlessly twisting the appendage as he spun around. The calculated action resulted in off balancing the Indian teen, the muscles and tendons in his arm straining painfully, until he wasn't able to remain upright any long. With a sharp tug from the intruder, Ayden's bare feet momentarily left the ground, his body flying through the air in a forced flip, until his back landed roughly on his bed, the springs in his mattress coiling extensively at the harsh slam.

The damningly familiar, cold steel of a blade against his throat made Ayden release a sigh of frustration. Looking up, he gazed at the face of his assailant that lingered above him, a smirk dancing on the man's despicable features. "How was the play?"

Gazing down at his son, Haytham lifted a brow at the teen's casual tone, save for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, evidencing their brawl. "Opera."

Ayden blinked. "Opera. Right."

"It was as to be expected - the actors performed well, the women wept, and our associate had some information regarding our Assassin."

"Sounds like a good night," the teen nonchalantly replied. He swallowed thickly, his bobbing adam's apple moving the sharp blade. "Can I get up now?"

The Grand Master nodded after a slight hesitation, a mechanical click sounding for a brief moment before the blade was suddenly gone. As the youth pull himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, Haytham ran inspecting fingers over his upper lip. Pulling his digits back to inspect the wetness on the pads of his fingers, he frowned at the crimson blood. "What have I told you about sleeping with your window open?"

Ayden considered his answer for a fleeting moment. But a reprimand was likely to happen regardless. "You are making this an issue. It was one night."

"With a band of Assassins so close to the city? Truly, Ayden, I don't know whether to be impressed or insulted by your idiocy. I mean, clearly I just proved my point." The elder Kenway gestured around himself.

The teen frowned at the truth in his words. But his arrogance ran strong. "You are acting ridiculous! No Assassin is going to climb up to my bedroom window like a mad man!"

"Oh yes, I always value these lessons from you about Assassins and subjects you truly have no experience in. Please, my teenaged son, enlighten me."

The boy openly glared at the Grand Master, relying on the moon's brilliance to light his face. "How does your nose feel?"

"I sincerely doubt as bad as your pride," his father shot back. Pausing for a brief moment, he narrowed his gaze as a thought crossed over his mind. "And that kick? Really? And here I thought I had a son, not a daughter."

Ayden exasperatedly threw his hands up in the air. "Wow, alright then. Why do you not insult me more - maybe critique the way I was sleeping or what I am wearing to add insult to injury - then we can close the chapter on this fun father-son bonding moment."

"If I were to even graze the surface with critiques over your sloppy fighting style, we'd be here till sunrise." Wiping the back of his hand over the small, warm drips of crimson blood, Haytham ignored the testy look from the teen. He wouldn't dare say he was taken off guard by the hit from his wayward son - either from his own heated pride or his desire to keep the boy as humbled as possible. Walking over to the window, the Grand Master made a dramatic display as he slammed the window resolutely shut, the once comfortable breeze locked out from the thick panes of glass. Turning around, Haytham met the irate stare from the adolescent, and he silently pondered if the boy acquired such an intense glare from him. "As I said, you know better than to keep your window open."

"It is hot."

He definitely acquired his stubbornness. "I'm sorry, you must mistaken me for someone who cares," the elder Kenway shot back. Making his way over to the door, his cloak sweeping in his steps, his hand fell on the brushed brass knob. He briefly considered giving the child a more thorough talking to, touching on the finer aspects of his cavalier attitude with his safety, but hearing movement on the other side of the second floor dwelling implied Ziio was already getting ready for bed. The night was indeed long, he was never one to enjoy the opera and considering his wife was of a contrasting culture, he sincerely doubted she actually enjoyed the spectacle. But it was dutiful and proper to make an appearance for his facade of being a businessman. And Ziio... she played the game of the gentry wife rather stunningly, despite her rather outlandish opinions that had a tendency to quiet even the most boisterous crowds. While her headstrong will and unnerving confidence was valued highly in her Native culture, it was incredibly alien to the meek colonists. Had she been born a male, Haytham had no doubt she would've wiggled her way into the tight circles of the ruling elite with her authoritative and willful spirit.

"What is going on with the Assassin? You said your associate at the opera was reliable."

Lucky for him and all of Boston, their son seemed to carry the flame of her unrelenting attitude.

Pausing as he pulled the door open, Haytham glanced back at the boy, not missing the way he attempted to slyly nurse his wrist. Yes... far too stubborn and prideful for his own good. "There's a ship to depart for London in a fortnight - you want me to add your name to the ledger for passage?"

"So now I am going to be shipped off to England for just asking questions?"

The elder Kenway sent him a deadened look. "You don't ever just ask questions, Ayden. I'm seeming to think the only way to manage this strange growth of interest in my work is to simply blot out your information. Heavens knows no amount of punishment works with you anymore."

But Ayden wasn't one to give up easily. Placing his open palms on his knees, he leaned forward in quick contemplation. "Considering you nearly had a heart attack from my window being open, I assume your associate was not as informative as you thought. You are not confident in finding this Assassin yet."

Haytham didn't look moved, his trademark disinterested, sardonic expression not etched. "I think you'll find London rather nice in the summer. The gardens in Queen Anne's Square bloom quite well this time of year. Pity I won't be accompanying you."

"Mother would not let you send me to England."

The teen had nerve, he'd give him that. "Try me, boy," Haytham replied darkly, their masculine battle of wits coming to a crashing point. But the miniscule uncertainty in the normally virtuous chocolate eyes told the older man all he needed know, pointing out the obvious relent from the younger Kenway. "Truly Ayden, the Assassins will be dealt with in due time, even without your constant hunger for information. And in case its so slipped your arrogant mind, I've run this Order for nearly two decades without your assistance - I feel fairly confident I can manage a few more years." Pausing for a moment to see if the boy would offer his rebuttal, Haytham was pleasantly surprised to be rewarded with a defeated silence. "Now, get some sleep. I'll be leaving for a short business trip in a couple days. I'd like to get in some training days before that time."

"Yes sir," Ayden halfheartedly agreed, watching his father draw the door open. "If I can not sleep with the window open, can I at least sleep downstairs?"

"So you can sweat on the couches? Absolutely not." Lingering in the doorway, Haytham flashed the irked boy a prized smile. "Lucky for you, its cooler in London than here."

Before Ayden could mutter out what would've been a crude string of curses - probably alternating between English and Mohawk - his father swung the bedroom shut, leaving the teen to wallow in his linger frustrations. Flopping back on the mattress, the sheets and comforter balled at the foot of the bed, he sent a heated glare at the detestable window for good measure, not caring in the least that the inanimate object lost no worth from the angered look. And yet, the lack of difference was shared with Ayden - he truly gained nothing from sending his anger at the object that cost him his comfort. Really, his should've directed the blunt of his frustrations at the male head of the household, whom he irritably heard stalking about the other half of the estate. The teen shamelessly found paltry peace in hoping the man was consumed with just as much discomfort as he in the hot spring night. For a fleeting moment, he considered pulling the window open, but knew his controlling father enough that the older Kenway would undoubtedly take a meager stroll around the perimeter of the house just to spite him.

And as much as he loved sparing with his paternal parent, the teen didn't quite feel daring enough to press his luck with the looming threat of his relocation. Surely his mother wouldn't allow his father to make good on his promise... would she?

* * *

Ayden didn't care where he was - either the frontier in New York, the rolling hills in Virginia, or the rocky terrain to the west - but he always sought and found a comforting solstice in the outdoors. The intense rays of the basking sun soothed whatever irksome feelings lay within him, the gentle breeze a culling voice that smoothed his wits. Swallowed up by the blissful magnificence of nature, the melodic soundtrack of a few sparrows mixed with the more urban noises of the feint voices from the bustling colonist in Boston, Ayden basked in his minute sanctuary, no matter how short-lived it may be.

As a particularly strong gust of wind rushed by him, the teen was quick to grip the novel in his hands tighter. Sitting in the small garden on the side of the estate, the grassy terrain around him didn't bother him in the least. He sat with his back propped against the sturdy trunk of a tree, his legs extended before him, and delved himself into the throngs of his novel; or at least, as much as he could. The droning words of Aristotle could only grant so much thrill. But the expected literature for his courses at Harvard was rather extensive, including tomes he merely glanced over in his previous teachings. His father made good on his word days ago, having left for whatever business trip required his attention. Not matter how many times Ayden pressed him for information regarding the reason of the trip, the Grand Master was obstinate his decision to keep him largely in the dark.

About to flip the page, Ayden paused and frowned at the sudden shadow cast upon him, the Latin scripted words turning dark from the blotted out sunlight. And yet, as the teen glanced up, the frown on his face only deepened as his curious gaze met the horribly familiar disdain one.

"Find you sitting in the dirt isn't surprising, but the likes of a book in your hands is."

Ayden glared back. "What do you want, Lee?"

Standing over the boy, Charles crossed his arms over his chest, taking in the irate look. Instinctual annoyance for the teen immediately dictated to him to return the heated look, but the older man strangely paused; the hesitation making him hate himself just slightly inside. And yet, either some paltry form of etiquette ran strong or he actually harbored some sort means of care for the child, as he noticed his gaze softening ever so slightly and linger down to the youth's chest. It was two weeks ago that he'd discovered the boy in the alley after stupidly - albeit fearlessly - engaging the damned Assassin in combat. Though Charles took a mental oath to never admit it, the truth of that dire day surely to be buried with him in death, he was surprisingly infused with a sense of alarm. When he rounded the corner at Haytham's heels, he easily remembered the stunning wave of cold dread that passed over him as his eyes landed on the prone figure of the injured teen. But that's what he wanted for so long, was it not?

And yet, even without Haytham's orders to assist, Charles recalled how he briskly fell to the boy's side and pushed away the weak hand that covered the gaping, bleeding wound. Years of cruel memories of fallen soldiers in the midst of battle riddled Charles' past, his experience in each one driving the force behind his nearly mechanical movements when he aided the boy. But it was different - the teen wasn't a faceless number amongst a regime, the possibility of his death merely a number to an already revolting amount. Watching the son of his Grand Master grow and mature into a testy young man rather capable of normally holding his own, Charles would venture that Ayden was anything but faceless. Quite contrary, he had the knack of making his presence known, either it be for the good or negative. But Charles wouldn't dare admit even to his thickly massed demeanor of coldness that he showed anything remotely close to sympathy for the boy. The teen was nothing more than a thorn in his side, a trouncing heap of dead weight on their otherwise typically devoted leader.

And in his wallow of denial, Charles would refuse to accept that anything but instincts drove his actions in that detestable alley.

"After your blood ruined my best jacket of imported Italian fabrics I would've expected at least some ounce of gratitude from you," Charles haughtily said. "Then again, I suppose that's my shortcomings for assuming your savage kind capable of manners."

"You know what they say about assuming," Ayden shot back, and briskly closed the thick tome. Whatever comforts he had were long gone, just as his hope for digesting the lengthy book in peace. Eyeing the older man and his nearly permanent sneer, the teen briefly contemplated standing up, simply out of spite of being in a lower position. But the Templar's words rang resolutely in his head, the truth of the matter far to weighty for him to ignore. Sheepishly averting his gaze to the side, Ayden missed the questioning quirt of an eyebrow from the older man. "Thank you, by the way. I know you think me nothing more than a savage or whatever you want to call me, but I am not."

Charles hesitated for moment, watching the abashed adolescent slowly lift his stare from the ground. Subdued and docile, the older man only wished the boy would fall into such an retiring role more often. "You'd be wise to watch your heinous use of pretenses in my presence, especially where I'm concerned. I don't take too kindly to slandering, boy."

All hints of that delicious submissiveness from the teen was suddenly gone, Ayden's eyes hardening back to youthful rebellious attitude. "How is that a pretense? You address me as a savage more than my actual name. Figures that you would find something to lecture me over. Just forget I said anything!" Pushing himself up from the ground, wiping the residual dirt on his breeches, Ayden roughly pushed past the Templar, not caring in the least as his shoulder collided with the older man's.

Growling like an animal beneath his breath, Charles spun around at the insolent, daring child, but he stilled his hands from wrapping around the tanned neck. Poise. Control. Whatever those words were that drowned out his roaring anger for the irking teen. Strangely, it wasn't the sheer fact of his age that grated against his fretted nerves. For the most part, Charles felt himself rather appropriate around children, though he'd remain steadfast at ever raising one of his own. Sure, he probably fathered a few children with the women he slept with, yet he sincerely doubted the bastard brats would amount to anything, undoubtedly the children of a prostitute for a mother. Then again, Haytham likely surrounded himself with the same aura of certainty; sleeping with the Native women probably never crossed his mind to result with a son.

And yet, standing before Charles was the walking, breathing evidence of the poorly construed assumption. Maybe the boy was onto something with his statement of "assuming", whatever that metaphor that escaped Charles may have been.

Quickly closing the gap between himself and the boy as they came up to the side door of the estate, Charles readily welcomed himself into the homestead, despite the teen's attempt to slam the door shut on his face. The Templar swallowed back his nearly automatic string of reprimands, laced with curses and the like, and instead focused his interest on the object in the home he came to sought. Though he silently followed the boy up the staircase, their paths differed at the second floor; Charles turning immediately left and Ayden going right.

But just as the Templar's hand landed on the brass knob to Haytham's trusted study, one of the many meeting rooms used for their brotherhood, a voice stopped him. "What are you doing?"

Charles released a frustrated sigh as he heard the youth abandon his trek to his bedroom, instead crossing the threshold to approach him. Glancing over his shoulder, he sent a cold stare to the teen. "Business, boy. Now if you wouldn't so mind leaving me be-"

"What kind of business?" Ayden skeptically asked, recalling how his father and William departed the estate at the wee hours of the morning several days ago. "Where did my father go?"

The Templar lifted a brow at the eerily familiar demanding voice. Save for the crisp English accent, the boy was sounding more like his authoritative father. "If he didn't divulge such information, why would you think I would?"

"He left early four days ago, before I woke up." The older man still looked skeptical, so Ayden tried his hand at a fib. "He was suppose to bring me with but I overslept. I was hoping to meet up with him if he did not return soon." Part of the lie was true; he knew his father was to be gone for a several day trip, though he hadn't known the precise reason nor when he'd return.

"Your father made no mention of your assistance in this matter, and your attempts to lie are laughable at best," Charles shot back, the boy frowning deeply at the words. "But it matters not anymore, I suppose. Your father and Johnson were suppose to send word by this morning regarding their useless talks. Considering I have yet to hear anything, these matters will be dealt with swiftly in a manner I see fit."

Ayden frowned deeply, a cord of panic striking in his chest as his heart felt heavy. "You have not heard from my father? Where is he?!"

"Are you not listening, boy? I already said, I haven't so much heard from either him nor Johnson. Now, if you wouldn't mind removing yourself from my presence-"

But Charles wasn't able to finish his sentence. The blur of movement before him coupled with the sound of whooshing air was the only forewarning he was granted before tight hands gripped his shoulders and made to push him back against the wall. But Charles was ready for the teen this time. Expertly lifting his own arms up, his significantly stronger form overpowering the teen's grasps, the Templar grabbed the boy's bicep in one hand and spun his around, stopping only when the youth's back collided with the wall. Lifting his other hand, Charles roughly planted his forearm against the adolescent's neck, pushing harshly on the doughy skin, feeling the bobbing of his Adams apple beneath his arm.

Ever his father's son, the boy continued to attempt to thrash even in his predicament, though that only encouraged Charles to press all the more harder on his throat. Leaning in closer to him, the Templar briefly considered drawing his hidden blade for shock value. Considering the already growing blue tint on the youth's lips, he gained sadistic comfort that his grapple of the upper hand was suitable enough. "Mark my words, boy. Do not _ever_ lay a hand on me again. Your father isn't so much here to protect you, and only God knows if he'll be returning. And in his leave, I assume command over this brotherhood."

Ayden growled at the man, attempting to twist in his grasp. "I could not care less about your damned brotherhood! Where is my father?"

Pausing though not lessening his grips, Charles considered the teen for a moment. He recognized that testy attitude in his remarks - his trademark rebellious demeanor as irksome as ever - but there was more there. Feeling his once irate, heated nerves simmer down significantly, the Templar recognized the atypical emotions that resonated in the boy's tone. Raw, naked emotions of vulnerability trembled behind the masked words of strength, giving light on the true tender age of the teen, and serving as a final reminder of the paternal relationship his Grand Master had with the Indian youth. As rebellious and obstinate his actions were, the boy was acting on nothing more than panic for the untimely despair of losing a parent, the sheer possibility all to real in the harsh elements of the frontier, let alone their line of dangerous work.

Slowly dropping his arm from the youth's throat, Charles took a small step back, watching the boy massage the abused skin. "Your father is in the White Mountains... he was due to negotiate with the Indians two days ago and send word of the allowance to pass."

Ayden tried to swallow, but the sudden dryness of his parched throat resisted the action. "Why did he not tell me? He cannot talk with them - they will not talk with white men!"

Charles lifted a brow. "Ironic that we finally agree on a subject."

If the comment was suppose to ease the boy's nerves, it had the opposite effect. "Then why did you let him?! Are you that eager to become the Grand Master, you disgusting-"

"Enough!" Charles bellowed back. "Had it been my decision, your father wouldn't have stepped foot in those disgusting mountains until the last of the Indian filth was gone! And seeing as how I've yet to hear word, that's precisely what I intend to do!"

"What do you mean?"

The Templar sighed heavily. "I've contracted a group of hired mercenaries to... let us say, use their refined negotiation skills with the savages. Once they've cleared the passe for us, Hickey and myself will travel it." He paused for a moment, already seeing the sour look on the boy's features. "If your father's talks with the Native's were soiled, there still is a chance that he is alive, and I'll bring him back."

But the wheels were turning in Ayden's head already. His father. Mercenaries. Tuscarora. "Bring me with you."

"Not a chance."

"What? Why not?"

"I'll be leaving with the mercenaries this evening and after this ordeal, I haven't the patience to deal with you, especially on such a long journey. Besides... your father was right - you've not been initiated. And should anything further foil our plans, you are the rightful heir to the Order after you are initiated."

"Then as the heir, I order you to take me!"

"Amusing, really. Without being initiated, your being the heir doesn't put you in a position of power above me, boy. And didn't you just so obstinately state that you don't care about the brotherhood?"

"I care about my father!" Ayden shot back. "And saving an entire Nation from being destroyed!"

"Well, as noble as your intentions are, the matter is out of your hands," Charles replied with a darkened smirk. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have much to arrange between now and tonight." Pushing the door to the study open, the place that housed the Templar documents that Charles possibly would be inheriting, he sent one last look over his shoulder at the boy. Charles wouldn't lie - he felt his own flowering despair at the possibility of his Grand Master's demise, though he was mindful to shove it to the side. It was a risk taken in the business. A sacrifice for the brotherhood.

A dark grin going across his features as he eyed the teen, Charles took in his edgy stance and brazen features. "Outside of the Order, your father did register me in his testament as the guardian of his personal property until you reach majority age. Of course in his death, as listed as his sole heir, you devise the title to the land, but until you reach age, I own the property, including this estate. And lucky for you, I intend to take this appointment rather seriously and devote much of my time here. It's what your father would want, after all."

Before Ayden could send a retort back, the man slipped into the depths of his father's study, shutting the door behind him. He'd be damned if he'd allow that detestable man to act as his supposed guardian, living in the likes of his home and invading in his personal life. Considering the dire chance of his father's death was weighty and dismal enough, but the added thought of Charles assuming some means of an authoritative role in his life was too much. The decrees that dictated the laws of wills and testaments couldn't be dodged; what Charles said was right. The title of land would be rightfully devised to him regardless of his age, though he wouldn't be able to receive the personal property until his 21st birthday. And living in a patriarchal society, his mother would be immediately passed up for consideration of the land, though there may have been some means of written dictation for her acquisition of the property. His father was resourceful enough; he likely arranged something to support her in his leave.

But that was even assuming his father was killed in his attempts to speak with the Tuscarora.

Turning around and briskly making his way to his bedroom, Ayden none to gently slammed the door shut, not caring how the hinges creaked at the abuse. His mind was reeling madly, going through the potential outcomes of the dreary situation. He sincerely doubted his mother caught wind of his father's possible death; she would've approached him about it already. But it wasn't confirmed yet... there was still a small hope.

And it was on that paltry glimmer of hope that Ayden made his decision to search for him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks so much for the wonderful reviews! Your kind words are definitely what keeps my butt in gear with pushing these chapters out. **

**Happy reading! **

* * *

The discussion wasn't going well - and that was putting it lightly.

His fingers itching to grab his pistol, Haytham's hidden blade was at the ready as he eyed the four Tuscarora warriors. Standing obstinately in the lone path that led up the mountain side, the Natives fixated their cruel glares on the colonists. The sun was nearly at its zenith, though the looming trees and thick forest canopy allowed only a trickle of rays to reach the grassy grounds. _Ironic_, Haytham silently mused, _that they should call these lands the White Mountains when all I see is green._

"William, tell them that we will offer them goods or pounds to purchase passage," the Grand Master instructed his counterpart. William glanced uneasily at his superior, perhaps reading the dismal demeanor from the Natives, but did as instructed. A barrage of foreign words spewed from his mouth, Haytham picking up on only a few select words.

The Natives shared a look with each, seeming to communicate an unspoken agreement, before they took a menacing step forward. One of the warriors, dressed in a long animals hide that was wrapped around his waist while his barren chest was marked with runes and symbols, raised his tomahawk threateningly and said something in his Native tongue.

"He... um... he presents a counter offer, sir," William replied edgily, his alarmed gaze darting around the canopy above. "He offers to spare our lives from the archers in exchange for us never to return."

"Tell him we mean no harm and have no dealings with his land. We are in search of an Englishman. It's in their interest that we reach the peak."

William hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering above his pistol. But if what the Native said was true, if there were archers tucked away in the trees, his lowly pistol didn't stand a chance. Complying with his leader's desire, he translated his words. The Tuscarora replied immediately, the anger and malice behind his words evident.

"Sir... he says he will give us a few more moments before he... separates our heads from our bodies."

Haytham figured the discussion would end badly. "Fine. Tell them this will be our last peace discussion with them."

Either Haytham picked the wrong words, or William translated it incorrectly.

Growling in anger, the warrior quickly closed the gap between himself and Haytham. One of his thick, calloused hands immediately made to grab the colonists around his neck, while the other lifted his tomahawk up the air, preparing to deliver a fatal blow. But just as his digits grazed the Englishman's collar, Haytham side stepped the grip and tomahawk, his own hand swinging around to deliver a fatal swipe. His efforts were in vain as the Native knocked his hand away and lifted his weapon again for an attempt at his life.

"_Oh niiawenhátie_?" (**What's going on**?)

Both the warrior and Haytham froze at the new voice, yet it was the Englishman that wished he hadn't heard it, despite its presence interrupting the brawl that was on the verge of erupting. Whipping his head around, sparing a quick glance at William that was held against a tree by a different Native, Haytham willed his breathing to steady itself. Yet as he watched a figure emerge from the brush, he felt his heart plummet to his stomach.

Dressed in clothes akin to his Native roots was Ayden. Similar to the Tuscarora, the boy's chest was void of a shirt, the only covering being a small hide of fur that was wrapped around one of his shoulders and a thick leather strap that ran diagonal across his chest that held his quiver to his back. A matching bow painted with a few stripes of red and white rested across his back and chest. Both his biceps and wrists were adorned with bracers of differing thickness, the light colors accenting the thin silver hoop pierced through his right nipple. His breeches were a light brown leather and he wore a small leather hide wrapped across his waist that draped over his backside. Instead of his black leather boots that Haytham expected of him he wore soft brown ones. His straight ebony hair was tied back in a half ponytail, secured with a red ribbon that had a white feather attached.

It was strange for Haytham - though he'd seen his son in his Native attire in the past, he couldn't quite recall the last time he actually did. While the teen spent last summer in the village, he'd left and returned in his normal colonial clothing, showing the only evidence that he'd even visited his forest-dwelling maternal relatives being his tanner skin. Perhaps the boy, as he matured into a young man in the colonist society, was ashamed or bashful of his Native roots, his not return to the bustling city of Boston in his Native clothing a conscious choice.

Blinking as the teen quickly approached them, a dagger in one hand, Haytham sent him a disapproving stare. They would exchange words later... if they managed to get out alive.

Each of the Tuscarora stiffening at the youth, their gazes narrowing, one of the warriors took a few tentative steps closer to him, his weapon drawn. Haytham squeezed his hand into a fist and quickly caught himself from grabbing the Tuscaroran. One warning glance from his son, however, hastily shoved the thought from his mind. A figure coming up beside him, he shared an uneasy look with William.

"_Tánon' ónhka ní:se'?_" (**And who are you**) the Tuscaroran demanded, stopping just a foot from the teen.

Ayden wet his lips, the taste of the earth rubbed on his skin reminding him of when he was a child and would play in the village. But such days of folly were long gone... at least in the dire situation he was in. For a brief moment he saw movement in the trees above him. Two archers; he made a mental note of their positions. Eyeing the warrior before him, he sent a silent plea to the spirits to aid him. "_My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton of the Kanien'kehá:ka. I come to you in peace._"

The warrior looked skeptical, his eyes darting over the youth. "_And these strangers_?"

Ayden briefly eyed Haytham and William, not wanting to take his eyes off the Tuscaroran. "_They are helping me._" The man looked more unconvinced, his eyes flashing with danger. The teen was quick to continue. "_There is a man on this mountain that I seek... that my village seeks. These strangers know him._"

Haytham sent a look at William, turning his face towards him and keeping his voice low. "Tell me what they're saying so I may stop feeling like a worrying parent."

William frowned, shaking his head. "I think he's saying his village is seeking the Assassin. He's speaking rather fast."

While the Tuscaroran allowed his weapon to fall to his side, his posture didn't relax. "_What business does this man have with your village?" _

_**"**He took the lives of my kin,_" Ayden lied, hoping his gaze was as firm and strong as the warrior. "_My Elders have given me the task to carry out this man's fate. I have employed the help of these strangers. They claim to know him." _

The Tuscaroran nodded his head slowly, his examining stare not lessening. "_These strangers have been asking for passage for many sunsets. Why have you not accompanied them before?" _

"_I have been searching in other mountains. These strangers were sent to check this peak_."

"_It is revenge you seek?" _

"_Among other things._"

Taking a step closer to the teen, the elder Native lifted a brow, his grip on his tomahawk tightening. "_This man that you seek... tell me about him._"

His heart pounding hard in his chest, Ayden silently cursed at his father for ordering him to not meddle in the affair; he would've at least gotten more information on the Assassin. "_I have not met him._"

"_Then how will you know the man if you find him?" _

"_I have seen him but have not exchanged words._" Ayden paused, hoping his desperation wasn't evident in his voice. "_These strangers could provide you with that information - they know the man better than I_."

The Tuscaroran paused for a moment, his guarded, calculating eyes running up and down Ayden's body. "_You answer for the actions of these strangers when in our lands." _

The teen nodded. _"Of course."_

Haytham nervously watched his son and the Tuscaroran exchange words, simply waiting for the indication of an issue to intervene. But there wasn't one. Instead the Tuscaroran turned around and called something to the other three warriors, who lowered their weapons. A grin on his face, William beamed at the Grand Master. "Sir, we-we are being allowed passage."

Spinning around in astonishment, Haytham met his son's gaze. As much as he wanted to berate and lecture the boy, he couldn't deny the positive tidings of their foreign conversation. The lecture could surely wait; they had an Assassin to find.

Falling into step behind the Tuscaroran warrior as they walked up the passe, his father and William tucked between the other three Tuscaroran for safe keeping, Ayden sent the elder Native a sideways glance. "_You have my gratitude._"

The Tuscaroran didn't look moved, his hardened expression not softening. "_We share your feelings of revenge on the White men... but my people cannot assist you beyond escorting you up the mountain." _

The teen stepped over a downed tree trunk, nearly smiling as he heard William struggle to do the same. "_I should not require any other aid. Though I will have to track the man." _

"_You would be wise to check by the other passe. This passage is very close to the village - this man who harmed your kin would not have traveled it easily. He would have had to take travels through the passe in the west." _

_"I thought that passe was not able to be traveled." _

The warrior sent the teen a darkened look. "_Not with ease but it is possible. The English do not care for obstacles in their way." _

Ayden unknowingly sent his gaze to the side, silently fearful that the warrior see through him for the truth of his mixed blood. "_Again, you have my gratitude for your knowledge. I will try to keep our time here short._"

The rest of the travels up the winding trail were kept mostly silent, save for Ayden's attempt at small talk with the warrior, who didn't seem receptive to the adolescent, his answers short. While the teen longed to speak with his father, he didn't dare let his feigned front down, and instead relied on sending an occasional look of reassurance to the elder Kenway.

Unexpectantly, the Tuscaroran warrior stopped in his tracks and lifted up an arm to signify the men behind him stop as well. Sparing a quick disdainful look at Haytham and William, he turned to Ayden, placing a heavy hand on the youth's shoulder. "_We are on the border of our village. I must bid you farewell and good luck at finding this man." _He moved away from the teen, inching towards the brush and foliage with his brethren. "_As for your friendship with these strangers... remember they steal from the land and give nothing back. I have no doubt they treat their supposed allies with the same respect._"

Before Ayden could even prepare to mutter his reply, the guarded and distrustful warriors slipped in the concealing leaves and branches, leaving the trio silently alone in the clearing. Though they were gone from view, their ominous warning resonated deeply with the youth, his mind chewing on the words.

"Truly, Ayden, after I explicitly told you not to get involved."

Blinking at the familiar voice in English, the language sounding strangely foreign after speaking Kanien'kéha for the past hour, the teen glanced to his father. "And you think your plan was going well? I should be getting gratitude, not a lecture."

Pursing his lips together, perhaps in part because of the truth in his son's words, Haytham grabbed him by the shoulder and began walking up the trail, William beside him. "By the looks of it, I'd dare say you had this all planned out!"

"Charles said he getting ready to send mercenaries up here to destroy the village tomorrow!" Ayden paused for a moment, chewing on the dismal thoughts in his mind. "I-I thought the worst when I heard you were trying to talk with the Tuscarora."

"I'm moved at how much faith you had in me," Haytham replied dryly. "And just look at you." He paused, running a digit over the youth's cheek before he could dodge it. "Did you roll around in a trough?"

"It is just dirt. It will be washed away when we go home."

"I have half the sense to send you home now," his father snapped back. Pulling away from the elder man, the teen slowly knelt beside a tree, his fingers pulling at the branches and leaves. "This is not a time for folly and play, Ayden."

Softly fingering the broken twigs and smashed leaves on the ground for a few seconds, the Native teen allowed the abused effects from the wilderness to fall from his digits. His trained eyes were already scouting the brush up the mountainside, and to anyone else not infused with his rustic conditioning from hunting for his village, it would've looked serene and natural. But for him, it was anything but. With a mere glance around the thick foliage and looming trees, he easily spotted the unnatural break in the thriving forest greenery.

Standing up slowly, the teen reluctantly tore his gaze from the scene and glanced back his father, ignoring the irate glare that would habitually make grown men quiver with fear. "I doubt either of you know how to properly track," he snapped back, making the older Kenway tilt his head in a disapproving fashion. But the Templar behind him looked pleased, his features lighting up significantly. "Unfortunately these tracks are old and it has rained since the person walked through the area."

"How old?" Haytham demanded.

The youth shrugged. "A week or two maybe."

William futilely looked out into the dense foliage the teen gestured towards, attempting to distinguish a hint of what the boy saw. But no matter how hard he strained his eyes and tried to convince himself that he noticed something amiss, he knew he was forcing any perception. "How do ya know these...tracks that you see weren't made from some animal? Or the Tuscarora?"

"The tracks are too small for a bear," the boy replied. "And they are too chaotic, almost like the person did not have an idea of where they were headed. See, look over there. It looks like the person backpedaled. An animal would not do that. And the Tuscarora know these woods better than anyone else - I would be surprised if they traveled on foot like we are."

Haytham released a breath of pent up frustrations. His paternal instincts were screaming at him to send the boy down the mountain, undoubtedly to intercept this supposed mercenary team due to wreck havoc with the Natives. And yet, his hardened persona as the Grand Master took reign of his senses, pushing his parental instincts and duties so carelessly to the side. The boy was indeed proving to be useful, despite his presence being deemed a damnable punishment, which Haytham fully intended on making good of when they returned home. But that was a different time, after his duties were completed, after the Assassin was appropriately dealt with. Eyeing his son again, he took an immediate stock to the weapons that adorned his figure, contemplating if further weaponry was called for. Of course he had the treasured weapon of his people, the bow strapped around his toned chest, while the quiver of arrows rested on his back. Though he couldn't see it, Haytham naturally assumed the boy was outfitted with at least one hidden dagger, and wouldn't be surprised if he had a second tucked away.

The sounds of a hawk screech over head drawing the trio's attention, Haytham spared a quick glance up at the sky, the obscuring canopy from the massive branches serving as a harsh reminder to their desolate location. Turning his gaze back to his son, he took a menacing step closer to the youth, earning him a look of uncertainty from the adolescent. "Listen to me, Ratonhnhaké:ton." This immediately captured the teen's attention, who straightened almost instinctively. "If you're to be following us up the trail to track, you will heed my every word and command. When I tell you to stay put, that leaves no room for error or interpretation. Am I understood?"

Ayden had his fair share of memories of his father angry, sometimes his rage directed at him and other times not. And he'd gingerly admit that his father tended to be lax with his dictatorial rule compared to some of his colonial friends' parents, who none to gently would deliver grueling lashes as their beloved method of discipline. But Haytham was a man of poise and control - at least, a man that fervently tried to maintain his integrity and pride. Sure, Ayden would shamefully acknowledge his debasing punishments that typically ended with a few backhanded slaps for good measure, coupled with his father's bellowing lectures, but he could only remember a select few times when the elder Kenway was sincerely angry.

And as he stared into his father's stone-cold features, his eyes glimmering with a deathly calmness, Ayden would chalk it up as one of those few times.

Swallowing thickly, the teen nodded and quickly averted his gaze to the side, unable to hold the unnerving stare with his father. "Yes, sir. I-I will listen."

Haytham eyed the boy for a few seconds before he accepted his word. "When we return home, we'll discuss England."

Merely nodding, Ayden watched his father stalk past him and roughly trek through the brush. He was tempted to point out that if he didn't meddle in the affairs, he would've been a head shorter. But considering his father's foul mood, he had enough sense not to push the Grand Master. He'd argue his point after the Assassin ordeal was figured out, the situation surely a great source of stress for his father. With that annoying prod out of the way, he may have better success at driving his point that he's involvement was the helping hand that not only led them to the Assassin but also saved their lives.

Over the course of the next couple hours the trio scaled the mountainside, Ayden providing the guidance for the tracks. Their conversation remained mostly basic and congenial, though the teen was occasionally tempted to press for more information regarding his potential relocation to England. At every chance of the conversation turning to that respect, Haytham would send the teen a firm stare that promised to unearth the topic at a later, more appropriate time.

Despite his muscles beginning to twinge from exhaustion from the hours devoted to walking with a few small breaks, the teen didn't complain. The sun was already void from the sky, having retired for the day and leaving the stars and moon to guide them in its wake. He made comments about stopping for the night, the sounds of wolves in the far distance not an overbearing concern but one that surely could turn into an issue. But his father ever determined didn't elude to entertaining the offers, in turn demanding his son to continue following the tracks.

And just as Ayden was about to complain about having difficulty with the beloved tracks due to the evening hour, a thick arm shot out and grabbed him, roughly pulling him from his crouched position of inspecting the foliage. Blinking in a momentary stupor, the teen questioningly looked at his father, though noticed the elder man wasn't looking at him; he was pointing at something in the distance. "Over there. You see it?"

Following his father's pointed digit, Ayden narrowed his gaze on the feint glow of light in the far distance. Despite the lengthy distance between the trio and the origin of the illumination, as well as the remaining brush that surrounded the clearing in the mountainside where the light came from, he was able to distinguish the subtle dance of what he assumed was a flame. Or more precise, a lantern. Taking a few short steps forward, he he was granted with a better view of the rest of the clearing. A small cabin no bigger than two rooms sat beside a rock wall, the hard surface serving a sort of protection to the backside of the miniscule house. With the night upon them, the teen doubted they would've spotted the wooden cabin if the lantern inside the homestead wasn't lit; a small window on the side of the home gave away the brilliance and the evidence of its vacancy.

A heavy hand dropped roughly on Ayden's shoulder, stilling his movements completely. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched his father come around him, the shine of light on the drawn hidden blade on his wrist making him itch with anticipation. "Scale a tree and stay there until we come out. I couldn't bloody well care what you hear or see - you're too stay up there until I say so. Understood?"

Ayden was tempted to counter that he could prove useful in whatever lay ahead in the desolate cabin, but he promptly clamped his mouth shut. He was already bound to be on the receiving end of a long-winded lecture, possibly even shoved onto a ship to cross the expansive ocean. Then again, if he was England-bound already, what could it hurt pressing his luck with his father to accompany him? One glance at the hardened features on the Grand Master hastily depleted that thought; the man didn't look the least bit willing to entertain negotiations.

"Alright," the teen grudgingly agreed. Sparing one last look at his father, taking in his edgy stance and the feral glint in his eyes, the trusty blade drawn at his wrist, Ayden glanced up at the trees above him. He calculated the distance to the lowest branch and quickly jumped up, one of his hands gripping the thick limb and hoisting the rest of his body up with ease. Navigating the dark depths of the thick canopies was second nature to the Native teen, his muscles straining in the taxing movements that would've otherwise winded his colonial friends. They'd never seen his more Native side since they were kids, when he'd dress up in his Indian attire for their games. But that was years ago, before he grew into his budding athletic build and was capable of pulling his weight from one branch to another.

So many time he wondered if his friends would ever recognize him in his Native garb, adorned in the twisted leather bracers and arm cuffs, outfitted in the pinnacle bow and arrow of his people.

Stopping at a comfortable height in the trees, Ayden easily found his footing on the broad limb while a hand sturdily held the branch overhead. Despite the shadowy elements of the night, his acute eyes easily spotted his father and William already at the cabin door. His spirits dampened by his irksome and dejected feelings, he was forced to silently and helplessly watch the two elder men expertly pick the lock on the door and stealthily maneuver into into the enigmatic depths, their figures gone from his view. As much as he itched to followed them, he would follow his father's unyielding instructions. Perhaps his father was right; maybe he wasn't suited to come face to face with an Assassin quite yet. Unknowingly, a hand fell to his side, where the bandage used to be; instead a jagged scar with freshly removed stitches lasted in its wake. Still tender and raw at the delicate prod of his fingers, the healing wound served as a harsh reminder to his first callous meeting with an Assassin.

The minutes rolled by without so much a sound, and slowly Ayden began to question just what his father was doing in the cabin, as well as question why he was staying in the damn tree. And yet, just as he was preparing to drop to the ground, a hint of movement to the side of the cabin grabbed his attention. Darting his gaze over, he made out the smallest shifting of a figure in the murky shadows; the slow, precise movements not going unnoticed by the attuned and trained teen. Carefully grabbing his bow and retrieving an arrow from the quiver on his back, he slowly notched the sharpened weapon, taking aim to the figure. The rough wood from the base of the arrow rubbed harshly on the calloused pads on his fingertips, though he hardly paid it any heed; his senses were sharp, his mind sharper.

And yet, his aura of confidence in his surroundings and himself was sorely misplaced; he'd so fatally missed the second figure that watched him from the base of the tree. It was only until he heard the exchange of air and branches snapping from a soaring object did Ayden realize his dire mistake. But that was too late; the damage was done. Two hard, blunt objects - what he later assumed to be rocks of some sort tied together with short rope - sailed through the air with impressive velocity, the speed and weight of the crudely made projective weapon cutting through the brush with ease. Hearing the coming of the object up from beneath him, Ayden unknowingly let the arrow in his hand go, not bothering to watch where the weapon flew or landed; his attention was devoted solely to his own safety, sounds of worried bells chiming in his head. No matter how fast he thought his limbs moved, his blood flowing vigorously with fret, he was damned. The rocks came flying beside him and he instinctively jumped to the side, losing his delicate balance on the branch.

The up-heaving sensation of free-falling was Ayden's first indication that he'd grossly lost his balance; the painful slashes from the branches that whipped by his face and body was the second. Frantic hands attempted to futilely grab at the limbs, but his tries were in vain; all he was rewarded with the aching feeling of his skin slicing open from the razor sharp twigs and the eventual bruising of his limbs from the slamming into the hefty branches. It didn't take long for his prone body to eventually succumb to gravity, despite the hindrances along the way, and unceremoniously crash into the ground. Whatever meager air was in his lungs was callously shoved out, coupled with the sickening sound and sensation of a few ribs cracking generously beneath his bulk. His head wasn't saved from the blunt of the fall; eyes slammed shut for some time, he willed the dizzy spell to desist and hastily attempted to thwart off the edges of unconsciousness that teetered on overcoming him.

Mounting pain and nausea consuming him, he barely heard the pained scream of a man in the distance, but did manage to weakly pull himself to his knees. The throbbing pressure in his head was unbearable, his vision plagued with unwavering vertigo that refused to dissipate no matter how many times he furiously blinked.

But where his conscious senses - such as the ever trustworthy eyesight - failed him, Ayden's more attuned, unknown senses were as honed as ever. When he was younger, he gingerly remembered far too many lectures from his father about developing and relying on these types of instincts, but at tender years, he barely knew what his father spoke of. Strangely the Elders in his Indian village also stressed the bizarre importance of trusting his "unseeing" sight; where tangible visions failed, the spirits would pick up and compensate. Visions ... spirits guardians... he never really bought into the more occult aspect of his Native heritage, much to the chagrin of his grandmother and the mystic shamans that spoke volumes of their importance. Yet he somehow managed to absorb the peculiar teachings, his unknown senses heightening when his primarily senses couldn't.

And it was those transcendental senses that overtook his wounded body and weakened mind, warning him of the oncoming attack from behind him.

Pushing through the pulsing pain, Ayden grabbed his dagger from his hip and threw his weight to the side, his weapon coming up to clank against another blade. His vision finally righting as he braced himself in a crouching position pushing against an adversaries weapon, the teen blinked at the dreadfully familiar face that sneered down at him, pushing all the harder against their fierce battle of dominance. His dark features etched with unreserved anger, his chestnut eyes flashing with hints of danger, Connor Davenport snarled at the unrelenting force from the Native youth on the opposite side of his menacing dagger.

"You again," the black man growled, readjusting his grip on his weapon to try to gain more leverage. Standing over the weakened, injured teen, Connor was already granted an incredible advantage, and it would only be a matter of time until the younger man succumbed to the inevitable. "Helping out your brothers, I see."

But instead of stringing together a reply, Ayden recognized his losing battle, his precarious situation surely not to tide well in his favor if he didn't make a move. Pivoting his weight to one foot, he was quick to follow through with lifting his other foot and driving it into the Assassin's knee, hoping to dislodge the vulnerable part of his leg. Of course the man saw it coming - many years the Native's senior, Connor easily dodged the blow but at the cost of his advantage. Their blades separated for a split moment, the Indian teen forcing his aching, injured body to hastily rise to his feet to properly face the dark-skinned man. In the distance he heard muffled shouts and what sounded like scuffles, but he was mindful not to allow his attention to waver for too long. Despite the incredible vertigo that shook his uneasy grasp on his consciousness and the overwhelming pain from his snapped ribs, Ayden kept his mind focused on the brawl at hand.

If Connor noticed the sounds of others in the close proximity, he didn't elude to it; his eyes lusted for blood, his grip on the dagger tightening menacingly. Taking a threatening towards the apprehensive yet guarded teen, the Assassin all to eagerly swung his sharpened dagger out. As much as Ayden was ready for the assault, his limbs moved sluggishly, his muscles protesting to his demands to move. But he managed to bring his own dagger up in time to deflect and even offered his own counterattack, albeit sloppy and futile, his adversary all to easily dodging. But it served more than a purpose than simply a haphazard attempt to bring his assailant down - Connor took the teen's shoddily formulated assault as an invitation to spar.

The two young men engaged in a fatal dance of dagger swipes and jabs, coupled with the occasional flesh meeting flesh. Having dedicated a greater portion of his life in the throngs of sparing and trainings with his father, Ayden would've been in his element had he not been disadvantaged with his pressing wounds. His deflects were becoming more and more delayed, his strength wavering, his vision dancing numerous times. The only peace of mind he had was that his father and William would emerge from the cabin soon, hopefully before he succumbed to the inevitable.

His movements lethargic, Ayden hastily brought his dagger up in a quick attempt to parry an upward slice from Connor. Their blades clinging against one another, the teen preemptively savored his catch of the assault. But in his weakened state, he heard the quick, familiar sound of mechanical gears all to late. His side left painfully exposed with his arm extended above his head, Ayden watched in washed over astonishment as Connor moved with impressive speed and brought his hidden blade through the air. He begged his aching limps to move, to kick, to do something to stop the Assassin, but the heavy fog in his head reached its consuming tendrils out, grabbing hold of his senses and shaking them with vigor. All he could manage his body to do was jump back in a poor effort to dodge the blade, though all it did was lessen the blow.

The signature weapon of the Assassins cut through the leather that covered his skin a few inches below his navel, its sharpened steel edge continuing through the flesh and tissue with sickening ease.

The stinging pain of the freshly oozing wound hit Ayden like mad. Barely noticing the dagger drop from his hand, he slammed his eyes shut from the overwhelming throb on the horizontal slash running several inches on his lower midsection. His crimson essence poured generously out, saturating his leather hide pants and streaming down the front in rivers. And so consumed in pain that the teen didn't notice himself lose balance, he didn't notice that he was already laying prone on the dirt ground, panting and struggling for breath.

It was only until a tight hand gripped his chin between two digits did Ayden slowly peel his eyes open and struggle to blink back the fuzzy images that danced before him. But his attempts were futile; his vision wouldn't yield, nor would the dark spots on the edges of his periphery desist. Chest rising and fall rapidly, his broken ribs protesting to the feverish movement, the teen managed to make out Connor's sneering face that loomed over him. Unexpectedly, the hand holding his chin suddenly turned his face to the side.

Hearing returned to Ayden, and he realized the man above him was yelling.

"There! You see him! Your handy work, you filth!"

Ayden could only blink rapidly as his grasp on consciousness began to waver. He hadn't a clue what the Assassin was angrily referring to; in his battered state, he could barely see a foot in front of him, whatever person he was referencing too was lost on the teen. Not that it mattered - he assumed he'd taste the sweet nectar of death soon enough, though he wasn't sure if he'd be conscious when the final blow as dealt. His lids were feeling heavier, his ears filled with the merciless pounding of his heart, his body throbbing with pain.

"Connor! What-what is..."

The new voice floated close yet seemed so far away. No longer infused with the energy to remain conscious, he allowed the sweet luxury of darkness to pull and tug at him, and in the physical world, he dully noticed hands pulling at his body. But he didn't fight either forces. He was all out of fight, all out of vigor.

He was all out of luck.

* * *

The spring nights were getting shorter in preparation for the upcoming summer; the sun stubbornly refused to dip below the horizon despite the moons insistence for their switch. Even the serene melody of the nocturnal bugs seemed to change with the blending of the seasons, their slow progression to the delayed darkness marking the eventual turn of the seasons. But for Ziio, the seasons didn't feel the same in the colonial towns as they did in the open expanse of nature by her village. There was no pristine lake with crystal ripples; the sky had no majestic eagles that soared over head; the wind didn't carry the glorious harmony of howling wolves. She had inadvertently exchanged the wondrous elements that marked her people's world for the more rough and blunted aspect of the colonies. And yet, she wouldn't hastily discount the unique characteristics of Boston as she so blindly did years ago, when she waved off the initial perception of the unique array of qualities in the white man's world as nothing short of annoyances. Maybe through the years she learned to acquire a sense of comfort from the colonial quirks, finally relenting and calling the place her home. The sounds of the harbor bells in the distance, the hooves from the horses of colonists that bustled about the city in its nocturnal state, and even the more crude melodies of the tavern affairs undoubtedly induced by seemingly bottomless kegs. Boston was a world leagues apart from the one she grew up in, the world that her people proudly called their own. And yet, Boston had nestled its way into her heart - just her English husband had - and took homage there, fostering and developing over the years, though never coming close to replacing her love and passion for the boundless wilderness where her village dwelled.

Standing outside in the late evening, Ziio's thoughts were anything but blithe and serene, her fretted nerves a striking contrast to the peaceful night. The dismal words from her husband still stung terribly at her broken heart, her chest heavy with sadness. Haytham and William had returned only hours ago, void of nearly all of their rations they left with yet equipped with disheartening news that surely was more weighty than any tangible item. Ayden was gone. Kidnapped, taken hostage, captured - whatever the term her husband and his associate wanted to use, but the ending was no different; her son was miles away with the opposing brotherhood hellbent on gaining ground to the Templars.

Leaning her weight against the white picket fence as she stood on the edge of the property beside the garden, Ziio managed to quell the strangled sob of frustration that nearly spilled from her lips. Haytham had promised Ayden would've been kept at more than an arms length from the secretive brotherhood but it seemed that was a wish long passed. Of course Haytham fervently tried to explain whatever the situation was - hastily stating their son took it upon himself to follow him to the White Mountains - and Ziio wasn't honestly surprised. Ayden was incredibly stubborn and headstrong, not one to be easily swayed from something he had his heart set on doing, especially where his father was concerned. The paternal bond between the elder and younger Kenway was indisputable, even to a stranger's eye. Adorned with an unrelenting wit and a rather surprising amount of patience where his son was concerned, Ziio would admit Haytham rather surprised her with his immediate taking to their son.

"I would say beautiful night, but I think we can both agree that it's not."

Nearly jumping at the voice, Ziio spun around, her hands instinctively flying to her chest. The lit lantern hanging outside the back door of their estate swayed easily with a small gust of wind, though it did little to deter the flame from softly illuminating the Templar's sculpted features. Feeling her posture relax significantly at the familiar face, Ziio eyed the man's pressed red jacket and his groomed chestnut goatee, the hue matching his short hair tied neatly back to a small ponytail.

William Johnson. Out the band of her husband's closest allies, the men he so readily declared his brothers, Ziio preferred the company of William. It was no secret that William devoted much of his life and career to learning the culture of the Natives - she even had a few sparse memories of seeing the Irishman before they were formally introduced, years before Haytham even stepped foot in Boston and what they considered the "New World". She remembered when she was just a little girl, no older than a decade, when she first met the young, strapping Irishman who settled so close to their secular village to learn of their customs. And she remembered all to well how she would sneak around the Elders and her mother in hopes of catching one last glimpse of the white man, to hear his bizarre accent of the English language she was just beginning to grasp. At the time she found his habits peculiar and strange - though in hindsight they were nothing short of his proper upbringing and esteemed manners - though she still looked forward to his next visit, her innocent yet naive idealisms outweighing her common sense.

But that was years ago. Since she assimilated to the colonial world, she still found herself pining for Haytham to surround himself with the likes of William instead of his closest friend, Charles, though the reasons changed drastically. Outfitted with a fluency in the Mohawk Language, William served as another person to converse in her native tongue, the familiar words of her people sometimes calming her wits. And yet, it was more than that; it went beyond the familiar language. Eyes that held a certain degree of calmness and understanding, he didn't have the same hungered look the other Templars had, Haytham included. Though still outfitted with an impressive arsenal of weapons on his body, Ziio couldn't recall a time she felt overly defensive in his presence, or concerned for her son's safety as she occasionally did with the other Templars. And she knew Ayden sought out his company rather frequently, probably for the same reasons.

Bringing herself back to the present, Ziio kept her hardset eyes trained on the colonists as he slowly sat down on the garden bench. "The night would still be beautiful if only Haytham had done what he promised me."

William didn't look moved by the snappy remark. Tired and worn, the man ran a heavy hand down his face. "Aye, and that he tried, Kaniehtí:io. The lad showed up on his own, saving our necks - rather literally - in the process. What would ya have us do - send him back down the mountain alone at night?"

The Native woman fastened a scowl at him. "I would not have my son be caught in the middle of this war! That Haytham would have done something! Anything!"

"Ya don't think Haytham didn't try?" William countered, the atypical tenseness in his tone making the woman pause in her mounting anger. "We tried to track him the best we could for hours! Try to find anything that would give us a lead to where he was taken, but we got nothing!"

"This would not have happened if he was not left to defend himself in some tree!"

The woman's flame of vigor seeming unending in its fuel, William merely shook his head. Despite his covert enthrallment with the Native - his unspoken desires for her going impeccably unnoticed for years - he questioned how Haytham managed to remain sane with her outspoken nature. Plopping his hands into his lap in hopes she would take the gesture as a sign of yielding, he heaved a heavy sigh. "I didn't come out here to argue."

"Then why did you?" Ziio pressed hastily, taking a small step towards the man and abandoning her spot by the fence.

"To check on ya," William replied honestly, taking small solstice in the woman's significantly relaxed figure, her once guarded eyes considering him lighter. "Haytham and Charles are still discussing possible locations, but with the way Haytham's fretted, I don't see him ending the night with anything less a long list of places to check out." He paused for a brief moment, waiting to see if Ziio would intervene, but she stayed eerily silent, her watchful gaze not moving from him. Releasing a small puff of air, the Templar glanced back down at his lap as his thumb circled around a scar on his palm, the lasting evidence of his rugged days struggling in the frontier decades ago. "Irony at it's best, I suppose. Haytham tried everything in his power to keep Ratonhnhaké:ton far from the Order, yet I have no doubt it was a mixture of genuine interest and adolescent rebellion that drove his hand."

Ziio lifted a brow. "You think I should have allowed him to become more involved in your brotherhood?"

William glanced up, meeting her pointed stare with equal intensity. "I think Ratonhnhaké:ton has long stopped following what the two of ya say long ago, and for Haytham being such a smart man, I'm amazed he hasn't noticed too. And as much as we all forget it - myself included - Ratonhnhaké:ton has become quite the trained warrior. Equipped with Haytham's trainings and your determination... God almighty can't stop that lad."

"And look at where these trainings and drills have led him!" Ziio countered. "Captured by your enemies and all for what? To be used as leverage in some secret war?" She shook her head dejectedly and moved towards the bench he sat on, not caring in the least as the salvages of her petticoat and gowns dragged unceremoniously on the garden dirt. The once pristine fabrics would undoubtedly need to be thoroughly washed and tended too, though Ziio hardly bothered herself with such an afterthought. Readjusting her skirts as she sat down beside the Templar, she stared forward at the desolate ground, the exposed soil darkened from a recent fertilization. "I should have stopped him somehow - locked him in his room, sent him to the village, anything! This is what I have feared for years... that some day he would become as obsessed with the Brotherhood as Haytham." _  
_

William lifted a curious brow at the woman. Seated so close to him, he took in her seasoned features that differed so starkly from the other gentry woman. Sun-kissed skin that showcased her years in the harsh elements of the wilderness, her exquisite gown and petticoat did little to conceal her true identity, both physically and in a proverbial sense. Forcibly reserved in a society that snuffed her opinion and matters, Ziio looked ready to burst from the tight clothing that marked the shackles of her freedom, that evidenced her grudging acceptance to the colonial lifestyle. But William didn't share Haytham's sentiments of approval where his wife was concerned - William hated seeing such a proud figure reduced to nothing more than a mindless face, shoved into a culture that was painstakingly not fit for her. Perhaps it stemmed from his decades of servitude to the Mohawk tribe, when he abandoned his comfortable lifestyle with his uncle in the colonies before his twentieth birthday and so daringly built a home on the edge of the Native's territory. Initially he was justifiably infused with just as much apprehension for the peculiar nations as they were of his strange customs, but as the years progressed and he came to appreciate their unique features, the bonds strengthened. Months were spent with the Mohawk nation, sometimes spanning close to half a year, which he chalked up as 'research' for the colonists, especially Haytham. He remembered years ago when first meeting Ziio in the colonies, how he immediately recognized her - as the daughter of the clan mother and groomed to eventually succeed her, the young Native woman wasn't a face to forget. But William played it off, said nothing of the sort, and if she remembered him from his sparse visits, she didn't elude to it.

But secrets were the glue that kept the Brotherhood together; either secrets from within their ranks or outside, it didn't matter. William would daresay each Templar housed his own closet of tucked away secrets, personal and otherwise, and he was no different. Sixteen years ago when Haytham gave the order to abandon searching for the precursor site around the Mohawk village, William obediently followed his leader's word, yet didn't sacrifice his beloved research with the Natives. Making his semi-frequent visits through the nations, he recalled when he began to notice the generous swelling in Ziio's midsection.

And it was during one of his trips to deliver literary novels to the tribe did he notice the tightly swaddled infant in her arms.

A smart, educated man, William did the simple math of the child's age and the time their Grand Master and the woman were together. But he said nothing to Haytham - and it became his secret shoved into the recesses of his body. He forced himself to become numb to the boy, even after his first meeting with him when he was barely five years of age. But his mantra of remaining distant from the half-Native half-English child was short-lived; just like his mother, Ratonhnhaké:ton seemed to gravitate towards William after learning of his fluency in the Mohawk language and understanding of their customs. Not that William complained - he relished his company with the young lad, albeit his unending energy was rather exhausting at times. He'd watched him grow and develop into a strong teen, conquering his father's harsh trials and earning a notable reputation in his village. Save for Ziio, William was the only Templar who was granted the paltry chance to see the teen in his Native environment, a miniscule fact that he took small pride in.

"You're right, and we can waste what's left of this night by arguing about hindsight and still come out empty handed," William replied softly, then mindfully lowered his voice. "Take my word for it, if given the chance I wouldn't hesitate to take Ratonhnhaké:ton's place. And I have no doubt in my mind Haytham wouldn't hesitate for even a second either. But we'll find him."

Ziio uneasily broke the eye contact, the dismal truth of the matter spilling from her lips before she could stop it: "No, you will not. But Haytham will keep telling me he will, probably will even continue looking. But he will not find him." She broke for a moment as a tightening lump of despair grow in her throat. But she wouldn't weep before Templar. "For years Haytham has not found this other order that opposes him, what is to change now? I will not give up hope for seeing Ratonhnhaké:ton again, but neither will I be optimistic like so many colonists. I have seen the reality of this world, and I do not fear for the reality of my son's fate."

William felt the tugging of a sad grin at his mouth. "I would be hardpressed to find anything you fear. I pray 'tis easier to list the entities that fear you." His eyes softening significantly, the Templar endearingly gazed at the visibly troubled woman. "The same could be said of Ratonhnhaké:ton."

The words were short yet weighed greatly, their meaning deep and sincere. Blinking past an onslaught of stringent emotions, Ziio felt raw and exhausted, her energies to maintain her strong facade taxing. And the man's words were the final slam into her fortified front of strength, none to easily stripping her of whatever layers she took refuge behind, leaving behind the truth of her emotional mess. "_Niá:wen tsi wahsekshnié:non_," (**thank you for helping me**) she whispered to him, afraid to lift her voice in fear of an uncontrollable tremble.

William grinned at the younger woman, but the action was forced. He hated seeing her strong spirit trounced. Standing up from the bench, he extended a generous hand to her, which she reluctantly accepted; not out loathing, he figured, but simply out of desire to push away the gentleman qualities. Not that he could blame her - raised in a society that discarded male supremacy, being forced to accept her lowered position must've been trying. "Though the night grows late, I fear Haytham is far from deeming it over."

Ziio allowed the man to lead her towards the estate, abandoning her post of wallowing. "He needs to rest. You both do. You have had a long journey."

Reaching the backdoor of the homestead, William's hand hovered over the brass knob. "I didn't exaggerate when I spoke of Haytham's searching. I wouldn't bat an eye if he bloody well tore this city apart looking for the lad. But revenge can be asset and a deadly weapon, especially for someone like Haytham to be armed with it."

Ziio hesitated for a moment. "Will these Assassins kill my son?"

William swallowed thickly. "Honestly? They may. If they find him to be useless for their cause."

A dark, feral look crossed over the Native woman's chocolate eyes, a harsh contrast to her normally fair demeanor. "Then let Haytham have his revenge on them... on all of them."


	10. Chapter 10

**Happy reading! **

* * *

Pain was the first thing Ayden noticed, his head throbbing and his chest feeling as though it was constricted. Voices speaking English words was the next sensation that lingered in his unconsciousness.

Slowly opening his eyes as wakefulness gingerly seeped into his mind, the teen's wavering vision was filled with a white plastered ceiling. The stationary vision was at least a respite from his vertigo and dizziness, his stomach flipping threateningly. Blinking a few times in a poor attempt to clear the cobwebs of fatigue from his vision and mind, Ayden daringly glanced down at himself, curiosity getting the best of him. Laying on his back in a bed, there was a pale blue quilt drawn to his bare pelvic bone, allowing a generous berth to the bandages wrapped around the area beneath his navel. The area where that damned Assassin sliced him with his hidden blades.

The memories of his fatal brush with the Assassins rushing his tender mind, a sense of panic washing over him, Ayden quickly took stock of the rest of his body. His weapons were gone, as were his bracers and clothing, and his hair hung loosely. Running an inspecting hand over his face, he was surprised to find it clean of the dirt he sponged on himself - someone had washed him. Taking in the cleaned and tended maladies that marked his chest, the thick bandage wrapped around his lower abdomen, he concluded he must have been saved from his dire fate at the hands of the dark skinned Assassin.

But one glance up at the strange, unfamiliar bedroom he was in, a more sinister realization set in - he hadn't a clue where he was.

"Ah, awake now, I see."

Whipping his head to the side at the new voice, Ayden immediately regretted the hasty action. The world was plunged into a state of vertigo, his vision looking as though it were on a tilt. The unease in his stomach didn't handle the abrupt dizzying sensation well. The teen all but fell to the edge of the bed as his stomach emptied its meager contents, his newly mended wounds pulled taunt at the action. But with the time that had passed since his last meal, his vomiting consisted mostly of dry heaves. His head pounded ruthlessly, the already spinning sensation not lessening.

"I wouldn't move so suddenly, if I were you."

A warm hand was pressed on Ayden's clammy shoulder, slowly and carefully turning him to his back. Eyes closed, he released a moan of pain. "Where am I? Who are you?"

There was a pause and sounds of several pairs of footsteps on the wooden floor. "These questions can be answered later. How do you feel?"

Slowly he opened his eyes for the second time, though this time his vision righted itself. Glancing to the side, he met a calm stare from a black man, though his crisp accent and pressed clothes pushed away Ayden's preconceived notions of the man. Racking his brain in a poor effect to place the strange face to memory, perhaps one of his father's associates, his efforts came back empty handed. But his father had to be close by - if he was alive after the brawl with the young Assassin, his father or William must have heard the commotion from inside the cabin and came to his aid. "I feel like I have been attacked by a pack of wolves," the teen replied, running an examining hand over the bandage on his abdomen. "Where's-where's my father?"

The air felt tense. The black man narrowed his eyes on him for a beat before turning around and sending a look over his shoulder. Following the stare, Ayden swallowed uneasily as he met the scrutinizing gazes of three other men, each one looking to be middle aged. Their sharpened blades and pistols on their belts didn't go unnoticed by the youth, their heavy artillery adding an edge of lurking danger to the already ominous air.

It didn't take his honed intuition to sense the ill-intent from the men.

"Who are you?" Ayden demanded harsher.

The black man, distinguishing the subtle hint of panic in the youth's tone, snapped his gaze back to him, while the other three men slowly approached the bedside. "I suppose an explanation of sorts is proper, despite your participation in such revolting activities. My name is Achilles Davenport."

Ayden felt his breath be robbed from his lungs, the blood draining from his face. Tensing up like a cornered animal, he darted his eyes between Achilles and the three men that silently surrounded the bed.

The black man chuckled softly. "Ah, so I see your father has spoke of me."

"Assassins..." the teen replied tensely, recalling the few times he overheard his father referring to the hidden Master Assassin that eluded capture from the Templars; then again, Ayden was sure the Assassin's were trying to find his father with similar ferocity. "Where am I?"

"Ayden Kenway, is it not?"

The teen frowned. "How do you know my name?"

"Ah, we knows lots aboyt ya." One of the Assassin's with short cropped blonde hair said, stepping forward and kneeling beside the bed to get a closer look at the boy. A dark grin spread on the Irishman's face. "An' look at that. Ya look jist loike yer ole man."

"Leave him be for now, Fergus," Achilles instructed before moving his stare over the nervous looking teen. The boy looked young, and if he was doing the math right, he couldn't be older than a decade and a half. But age was simply a number; his men had seen first hand the deadly training the boy received, his proficiency with a blade both amazing and alarming. "Well, now that we have been properly introduced, how fares your injuries? It looks like you weren't exactly a match for my son."

Ayden pursed his lips together, sending a heated look at the Assassins. "I am _fine_. I did not think your Creed encouraged dishonorable attacks as your son did to me."

Achilles grinned. "Well this is new... a Templar giving me a lecture on morality."

"A Templar?" the teen blinked. "I am not a Templar."

An Assassin with drawn back brown hair lifted a brow, his chiseled face thoughtful yet his chocolate eyes were soft. "Son of Haytham Kenway... you're the heir to that entire Order. The great God almighty Himself couldn't defend your involvement with the Templars."

"I am not! I have never been initiated into the Order."

Achilles tilted his head forward skeptically, his eyes flashing dangerously. "And yet it was your arrow that murdered our fellow brother in the White Mountains."

"I had no involvement in that!" Ayden countered. "I was instructed to wait outside the cabin. He ran out and -"

"Ya tuk de opportunity an' killed 'im," Fergus interjected angrily. "Loike father loike son."

The teen balled a fistful of the quilt in his hand; it was all he could do to stop himself from throwing a punch at the Irishman at his bedside. "I am not a Templar," he repeated slowly. "For being known for your network of spies, you sure have poor information on me."

"And yet, you still killed him," Achilles replied lightly. "You may not have been formally initiated into the Order, but you've been trained. There is not a soul in this room that doesn't know of your eventual fate with that Order." The man paused for a beat and softly sat on the edge of the bed. The boy quickly shifted away from the Master Assassin. "Curious... that even with your Native blood, you still agree to uphold the Templar values. Either you're a truly loyal son, or I underestimated your ignorance."

"Why did you even bother saving me?" Ayden countered, ignoring the man's taunting words. "Why not just leave me for dead?"

Fergus smiled, a row of straight, white teeth flashing. "An' chance yer paw findin' ya? We couldn't let a wee bird loike yer git away."

"I have done nothing!"

"The blud on yer 'ands says otherwise."

"Then why the medical attention? Why even tend to my wounds?!"

Achilles lifted a hand, signaling for the Irishman to silence himself. "To be frank, we were hoping you may provide us with some...insight, as to your people or your father's work."

Understanding what was asked of him, Ayden frowned deeply and spat in the man's face . "You might as well have just let me die. I will tell you _nothing_ of either my families."

Pushing himself off the bed, Achilles sent the boy a saddened look as he wiped the saliva from his chin. Fergus indeed spoke the truth - besides his Native features, the boy looked every bit his father's son. Eyes filled with unending determination and burning passion that Achilles had seen in Haytham, the boy's strong jaw line and broad chest harbored similar features to the Grand Master. Though the teen's capture was a small victory for their covert Order, Achilles couldn't subdue the blossom of regret in his chest. If what Ayden said was true, if he was not officially a Templar, was he simply getting caught in the crossfires? Would he be damned to answer for the crimes of his father? Or of his future, potential wrongs?

"After your wounds are better healed, we'll see how much information you have," Achilles said as he bent down and grabbed an item resting beside the bed. Standing up with it, he watched the teen pale as he eyed the steel shackle in his grasp. "I saw you eyeing these windows the second you woke up, no doubt trained to find the nearest exit - I'd expect no less from your father. But... that won't rest well with us."

Ayden swallowed thickly and tried to distance himself from the man, but Fergus and the other Assassin quickly grabbed his shoulders, holding him still. His body hurt and fatigued, the teen didn't have the will to put a formidable fight against the men. He felt the chilly steel on his left wrist first, followed by the damning sound of the manacle snapping resolutely shut. A second clamp sounded shortly afterwards.

The adolescent brandished a heated stare on Achilles for a beat, then gave a few test tugs on the short chain that attached his wrist to the bed post. "You really must doubt your men if you go through this trouble."

Achilles lifted a brow. "I make no mistakes, Master Kenway. You will find that I am rather thorough in my work. Now, I will be sending my wife up to change your dressings on your wounds - we wouldn't want you falling ill before making use of you." The Master Assassin glanced at one of his brothers, a man with shoulder length curly black hair. "Elías, keep watch on the boy. Call us if he becomes difficult."

"Of course," answered the Spanish man, taking a seat in a chair against the wall, calmly facing the youth.

Without so much warning Achilles and the other two Assassin's stalked out of the room, Ayden emitting a frustrated sigh as he fell back against the pillows. He needed to find a way out... and fast.

* * *

"We'll find Ayden! We know the Assassin's took the southern passe with him - I doubt they faired far."

The wash cloth in her hand stilling for what seemed like the millionth time that day, Grace blinked back the emotional onslaught from her father's strong voice that echoed from the upper regions in the house. Tucked away in the kitchen to carry out her household obligations, the teenaged girl struggled incessantly to remain on track, despite the relatively short list of chores she was to complete. Born of a gentry, wealthy family, the Hudson's tended to rely on the paid services of their servants that bustled about the estate, carrying out the more pressing and laborious tasks. But it wasn't her despising of the more monotonous duties that slowed her progress, even occasionally stopping her movements all together, but rather the ominous words of the conversation in her father's study on the second floor. Hours ago as the first morning rays graced the lands, a group of her father's associates - Haytham, Charles, and William - filed into the recesses of the room, their expressions gaunt and defiled. She knew something was amiss immediately. Biting her lip in a poor attempt to stop the quiver, Grace nearly wished she didn't eavesdrop on what was supposed to be a covert conversation.

Her best friend was gone. The young man she silently swooned over for years, the only man whom she dropped poorly concealed hints to her father for her longing of his eventual courtship. A barely unnoticed quiver shook her hand that weakly held the cloth against the kitchen table, her mind furrowed with despair. She hated that damned Order - hated the brotherhood and everything they stood for, hated their mindless war that pulled a likely unsuspecting Ayden into it's gruel grasps. The kitchen felt hot and clammy, her breaths struggling to come in and out in the overwhelming emotional wave. Glancing down at her pristine clothes, she briefly considered loosening the ties that crisscrossed over the front of her cream colored stomacher, but etiquette and manners dictated otherwise; an unmarried woman, it wasn't her place to be in such a detestable state with single men in the homestead.

A strange turn of emotions washed over her as she moved her gaze down her dress, the once fervent despair replaced with a blossoming anger at her exquisite clothing. Her soft fingers slowly trailed over the luxurious pale blue silk of her outer gown that flowed graciously over her hoopskirt and layered silk petticoat. The immaculate fabric a pricey import from France, a yard of it could surely afford to pay a months worth of food for vagabonds and panhandlers in the budding colonial city. Her fingers trailed down to the middle of her dress, where it opened up to reveal her ruffled silk petticoat of a similar soft blue color. Raised in the privileged class of the gentry, she was rather accustomed to be garbed in pristine fabrics of the affluent. But it never truly crossed her mind of the incredible sacrifices made to afford the lavish attire or live a comfortable lifestyle that many could only dream to afford. Paid through the likes of her father's indisputable involvement in the vile brotherhood, that was how. Sure, he dressed it up as being nothing more than a trader, earning their wealth through a generous cut in his contracts, but she knew the truth - she wouldn't be blinded or swayed by their grandiose lifestyle filled with posh balls and sumptuous meals. Their costly lifestyle was afforded from the secretive brotherhood her father thought she was so ignorant of, the same brotherhood that took Ayden away from her.

Grace heard movement in the house but paid it no heed - her legs felt weak beneath her heavy, broken heart. Dropping herself ungraciously onto the wooden bench nestled beside the table, she allowed the pooling water in her eyes to spill out, hot trails of tears leaking down her fair features. She wanted to blame her father, Haytham, William - any of them for not protecting Ayden better - but it would prove little use. Her paltry information riddled with unfilled gaps, her source coming strictly from overhearing, she hadn't a clue of what truly occurred beside her neighborhood friend being ruthlessly ripped away by the Assassins.

The sounds of bootsteps on the wooden-planked stairs startling her, Grace quickly rubbed her face on the side of her sleeve, hoping to hide the evidence of her despair. While she wiped away the physical affirmation, it didn't little to wash aside her desolate and trounced feelings that she may never see her friend again. Glancing around the generously sized kitchen she found herself busy in more and more as she aged and matured into her role in society, she felt a sad grin tug at her lips. Since accepting that she was being groomed to be a perfect gentry wife, she'd grudgingly accepted her slowly growing chores with a bit of modified ideations. As the eldest daughter in the Hudson household, she prowled about the estate giving orders to servants when her mother was absent or busy, and carried out her own limited array of chores. Initially she hated them - she preferred to be engulfed in the thrilling literature of esteemed authors, or the mentally-taxing arithmetic from innovative minds. But she knew those days were long past, her time to enter society as a proper woman coming far too quickly.

And with it, eventual marriage.

With her debutante in less than a year, time was a precious resource she didn't have - her father needed to be approached by a suitor long before the grand ball that would mark her introduction to formal society. Grand ball... that's what her parents and society called it, but she knew otherwise. It was nothing more than an extravagant auctioneer block, a place where she would be showcased to wealthy eligible bachelors, her hand for marriage given to the man deemed the most "suitable". When she was a young girl, she remembered imagining her posh debutant with a flowing ball gown, dotted over by swooning gentleman, the night filled with mindless chatter and flattering compliments. But those thoughts slowly dissolved away as the truth of the gala slammed into her - all those imagined compliments and dances to strange gentlemen she hardly met was all for having her as a wife. A trophy to display with the rest of their vile wealth. Slowly her fantasies of dreamily conversing with faceless gentlemen were replaced with daydreams of devoting the night to one particular young man, who she'd whimsically dance and laugh like a schoolgirl with. Of course she would still be garbed in a timeless gown, but he'd look so different from the other English suitors; subtle accents of his Native heritage evident in his appearance, either from his half ponytail, tanned skin, or Indian necklaces.

But fairytales only happened in the books she once loved so much. Happy endings didn't exist beyond the thick tomes and thin pages.

"Oh, good afternoon, Miss Hudson."

Blinking past her trounced reverie at the familiar voice, Grace forced a smile on her face - an action she was all to accustomed to doing. Quickly standing up from the bench to ensure formalities, the young woman respectfully curtsied to the four men that stood in the open doorway to the kitchen, likely on their way out of the homestead after their meeting. "I would say it is, Mister Lee. It won't be long until these springs afternoons turn into summer days."

"Yes, well, that will be unfortunate for us. I heard the almanac projected a rather harsh summer this year," the older man replied solemnly to her attempt at small talk. Eyeing the Templar, Grace wasn't surprised he showed no hints of distress at Ayden's horrible capture; she always assumed the man had ill-intent for the Native teen. The pleasantries out of the way, Charles tilted his head down in habitual etiquette to the young woman. "I wish you a good afternoon, madam."

"You as well, kind sir," Grace mechanically replied, years of societal protocol piecing the phrase together with ease. She watched the three Templars and her father turn from the kitchen doorway to the connecting foyer that led to the front door. Without realizing, her eyes snapped to Haytham, her astute gaze examining the man who was deemed their "leader", the father of her missing friend. As much as she wanted to drill him endlessly regarding Ayden's whereabouts and the dire events that led up to it, she knew she wasn't supposed to possess such knowledge. If she wanted any kind of information, she'd need to be crafty. "Oh, um, if you would beg my pardon, Mister Kenway."

Haytham paused in the foyer and slowly retracted the few steps back to the kitchen. "Yes?"

Sunken eyes and gaunt features, her neighbor looked worse for wear; his worn appearance serving as a miniscule evidence for the trying situation. But she played it off, just as she always had, and brandished her best cheerful smile at the man. "I do not mean to intrude or serve as a bother, but I was supposed to see Ayden yesterday afternoon. He was to borrow some books father received from the trades last week." She paused, hoping to see any change of demeanor that would cast a shimmer of light on the dismal event. But Haytham was as poised and collected as ever, and simply stood stoically watching her. "Well, I won't bother you with the details, but he never did arrive yesterday. Would you mind asking if he can come by tomorrow?"

It was her father that gave them away as he fidgeted on his feet, his shielded eyes hastily averting to the ground, unable to maintain the look from his blithe daughter. But Grace caught the action immediately, though her perfectly poised facade didn't break from its habitual mold.

Haytham even gave away the slightly indication for something wrong - his broad chest heaving a deep breath. "I fear Ayden is out of town for the time being. I'll be sure to pass along the message promptly at his return."

"Thank you, Mister Kenway," she politely replied, resisting the urge to scream back at the man for his fib. But she couldn't break character; she couldn't break her perfected role.

Just as the men filed further into the entryway, their faces long with unspoken worry, her father lingered in the doorway. Washed over in the same distraught as his associates, his normally soft, shining eyes looked dulled and muted, a twinge of worry and concern tugged at Grace's weak facade. Blinking back her shroud of sadness, she kept her shoulders rightfully squared, her proud head held high despite her dampened, defeated spirits.

Opening and closing his mouth a few times, Eric Hudson ignored the sounds of the front door coming ajar, his colleagues finding their way out of the dwelling. Etiquette told him to see them out, but obligation to his daughter dictated his actions otherwise. He simply couldn't shake her unearthing smile, the liveliness in her sapphire eyes that would brilliant shine with a mere mention of Haytham's son. It was no secret the two teens covertly yearned for the other, their innocent flirting and humorous giddiness serving as more of a means of entertainment for Eric and Haytham. But the years passed with amazing speed, and what was once a crude joke of eventually becoming in-laws through their children was quickly becoming a potential reality. Grace was nearly her age to be devoted to a marriage, her hand already asked by suitors twenty years her senior. But Eric kindly turned them away - she had a year until her social gala, and he would only consider granting one exception to her courtship before that time...

But even that was uncertain. As much Eric tried to desperately keep a positive attitude in front his Grand Master regarding the finding of his missing son, even he harbored sincere doubts. He never pressed for the fine details of that day in the White Mountains, the dire events eventually ending the with dismal capture of the teenaged boy, but he gathered enough that it was out of Haytham's able-bodied hands. A man of incredible talent with his weapons and wit, he didn't question Haytham's capabilities in any respect, even where his son was concerned. Eric always found their relationship rather peculiar; Ayden was a harmoniously mix of his multicultural parents, yet seemed to inherit the finer features from his father, even down to the attitude and stubbornness. A full household of children and his fair share of moody teenagers, Eric didn't want to consider the arguments that'd rack the Kenway estate, what with the unrelenting males of the household.

But he liked Ayden, even with his Native blood that many looked down upon. The tales of his brutal people were not for the lighthearted, though Eric had a trying time imagining the likes of the polite and virtuous young man carrying out such viscous acts. When the boy was in his innocent youth, he tended to showcase his mixed blood with pride, speaking volumes of his fun pastimes in the village. But the stories slowed down as he aged, until they were rare gem from the teen; Eric could only assume the harsh realities of the Natives' perception slammed into Ayden's tender mind without forewarning.

Bringing himself back to the present, Eric blinked back the trodden feelings of nostalgia as he eyed his young daughter. He hated to be the one to deliver the trying news to her, to break her blithe and elated spirits. Taking a deep breath in hopes the air would calm him, he was sorely disappointed; no respite would come to him.

"Grace..." Eric began quietly, hearing the front door to the estate resolutely shut behind him. "Something has happened..."

* * *

Making their way down the stairs silently, Achilles led Fergus and the other man, Gabriel, through the Davenport manor. Reaching the bottom level of the homestead, the sounds of voices from the encompasing rooms filled the area. With the capture of the Grand Master's son, their secretive Order buzzed with bubbling excitement and thrill; finally, a means to turn the tables in their favor. It was only three days ago that they managed to escape the mountain side with the teen, his wounds severe, and make their way back to their headquarters. As expected, news of the teen's capture spread like wild fire to the Assassins, and it didn't take long for them to slowly gravitate towards the secluded manor that served as the point of their operations.

A household full of Assassins and one Templar.

Turning into the kitchen, the aroma of thyme and rosemary filling the air, Achille glanced at the people situated around the wooden table in the middle of the room. With the manor serving as a makeshift inn for the Assassins, space was a rare commodity. His wife, Abigail, stood over the burning hearth in the corner, a large black pot in the center. Though he was sure his spouse would undoubtedly hear their conversations, he'd long ago stopped trying to protect her ears; a trustful woman, he never questioned her loyalty to him.

Snapping his eyes back to the table, Achilles nodded his head at the two Assassins. On one side of the table was Jameson, an elder Englishman in his late thirties with a pair of angry scars running down the sides of his cheek. Situated directly across from him was a young Black man, his son, Connor. Hard set eyes and a sneer that never seemed to lessen on his face, the twenty-four year old had come to make a namesake of his own amongst the Order. Sadly, though, it was not a reputation Achilles harbored a fondness for.

"Is he awake?" Jameson asked as Fergus and Gabriel joined him at the table.

Achilles immediately noticed the look of interest that passed over the man's features. "He is. But not as... cooperative as I'd hoped."

Fergus grinned. "Leave 'im wi' me. I'll git de 'ittle bird ter sing."

"Not yet, my friend. All in due time. We'll discuss when and how to question the boy once he is of better health."

Connor released a heavy, impatient sigh. "Yes, father, let us waste more of our precious resources on the half-breed brat." He ignored the astonished stare from his father. "Let's take a chapter from his own people's history - scalp him alive and send his head on a pole to his father."

Before Achilles could reprimand the young man, Gabriel beat him to it. " 'You have heard that was said, 'Love thy neighbor and hate thy enemy', but I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.' "

"Don't spew scripture at me," Connor spat back. "You may be a holy man in the Church, but you've spilled just as much blood as I have with your blades. And that kid up there doesn't deserve my prayers... he doesn't deserve _anyones_ prayers."

Seeing movement in the corner of his gaze, Achilles shared a look of concern with his wife who turned from the hearth to glance at her son questioningly. "Connor..."

"No, father. I'm done playing nice! You think the Templars would show the same hospitality that we have?"

The Master Assassin glared at his son. "No, and that is why we are better than they are. Morals, principles, values-"

"Bah! All those are useless here. Just look around you!" Connor paused, gesturing to the now handful of Assassins that slowly stalked into the kitchen, a few more lingering in the hall and doorway. "This is our time of glory. Question the Templar brat, found out what he knows, then send his lifeless body back to Kenway!"

Fergus nodded solemnly, his head propped up in his hands. "Sorry, boss. Oi got ter agree wi' junior."

Jameson crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his brows down in thought. "That'll just make a martyr out of the boy. Revenge can be deadlier than a hidden blade, and I really don't want to consider Kenway or his men armed with that."

"So we just ignore this opportunity?" Connor pressed. "This can be a blow to Kenway!"

"Once the boy is dead we lose our advantage," Jameson replied solemnly, his sapphire eyes meeting his leader's with shared understanding. "The point is to keep the Templars where we want them - and that's exactly what we have right now. Kenway has likely sent a few of his lackies to try to trail us. Their ranks could be stretched thin - we should capitalize on it."

Fergus lifted his head up. "Yer really tink Kenway wud do al' that for wan kid?"

Achilles consider both his men's thoughts for a brief moment before nodding. "If what the boy says is true - if he really has not been initiated - there must be a reason, especially if he was speaking the truth about not getting involved in the White Mountains. I think I may share Kenway's hesitation in both regards. I recall my own struggles with letting Connor join our creed."

Jameson caught onto his leader's line of thought, nodding in agreement. "Haytham may be a sick bastard, but he's done a damn good job at protecting his son for all these years. Maybe there's an ounce of sentiment somewhere hidden in him."

"So what the hell do we do?" Connor asked, releasing an exasperated sigh.

"Use him at bait," Achilles replied, feeling the anticipating stares from the men in his Order. "Kenway has been wise to elude us, but we finally have something he wants. We'll still question the boy, but keep him alive." The dozen men gave him nods and quiet words of agreement, though Connor merely sat resolutely still. The Grand Assassin turned to his wife, and nearly smiled at her. Standing with her back to the hearth and the boiling pot of soup, her arms were crossed tightly over her bossom as she silently watched the exchange with the Order. Considering her stone-cold features, he could guess her annoyance with him. "Abigail, would you please go check the boy's dressings? I fear he may have pulled a few of his wounds."

Wiping her hands on the front of her white and blue plaid apron, the Jamaican woman nodded. "Of course." She paused, sparing a quick glance at the boiling liquid in the pot behind her. "He's probahbly hungry. I weel bring 'im food."

Ignoring the men's watchful stares on her back, she quickly laddled the thick chicken broth and few vegetables into a deep bowl, grabbing a spoon to accompany it. Without so much another word, she walked proudly past the Assassins with the steaming soup, her head held high.

Turning down the hallway, sidestepping the few men that stood in her path, Abigail silently made her way towards the staircase. She remembered all too well the night two days ago when her husband and son burst through the front door. After being married to the Grand Assassin of the covert order for a quarter of a century, she'd come to count her blessings every time they returned home, as she had to swallow the great possibility that some day they may not. But two days ago... she'd sensed something was amiss, and one glance at her men reaffirmed her intuition. Blood coated the front of their jackets and waistcoats. Worried and frantic, she remembered fervently checking them over for the wounds, yet despite her frantic hands, she couldn't find the origin.

The blood wasn't theirs.

Reaching the top of the second floor, Abigail painfully recalled how they led her out to the wagon, where they pulled back the tarp to reveal their prize. Covered with blood and unconscious, a young Native boy lay in the back of the wagon. If it weren't for his occasional painful moan, she thought the boy dead. Though Achilles begged her to see to his wounds, she demanded one thing: to know who he was.

Turning into the guest bedroom, Abigail first glanced at Elías. Sitting on a chair against the wall, the Spainard was running a small wash cloth over the barrel of his pistol, though considering the immaculate glisten on the metal, she doubted it needed tending. Then again, the man did have a pecular fondess of his twin pistols, the Assassin preferring the projectile weapons over the trademark hidden blades on his wrists. Nodding her head in reverence to the man, Elías returning the greeting, Abigail glanced at the bed.

Propped up against a mound of pillows was the Native teen. Though she'd come to look in on him before, those visits were different; she was able to care for her young patient with the ease of mind that he was unconscious. Meeting his solemn gaze for a beat, his fatigued features giving away the weakly feigned strong front, the woman eyed the thick binding that shackled him to the bed post. A barrage of cruel memories from her childhood in her homeland of Jamaica rushed to the surface of her mind, the shackle reminding her of the men enslaved in her village. She hated it... she hated that damn, debasing shackle. And silently, she hated Achilles for even putting it on the boy.

Pushing the dreaded thoughts to the side, Abigail placed the soup on the night stand and grabbed the small basket of medical supplies she left in the room from earlier. As she moved closer to the bed, she heard Elías stand up from the chair behind her as the adolescent visibily tensed. "I mean yah nah harm. I've come ta clean yu wounds."

"Easy, boy," Elías' threatening voice sounded from behind her. "If you even look at her the wrong way, I won't hesitate to put a bullet in your head."

Abigail sent the Assassin a demeaning look for a second, then turned back at her patient. His posture softening significantly, his shoulders seeming to visibly loosen, she took that as her cue and allowance to approach him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she eyed the once white bandages wrapped around his lower abdomen, the small spots of crimson leaking through the clolths making her frown. "Looks like ya pulled ya wounds open. Lay on ya bok. I have ta clean ahn dress dem agin." He hestitated, his eyes glistening with defensiveness. He reminded her of the wild boars her village used to hunt, the fight that never seemed to die in the animal despite the odds against them. "Mi name is Abigail. I ahm trying ta help ya."

He wet his lips and eyed the woman for a few seconds before finally laying on his back, his gaze not leaving the woman's face.

"See. Dat wasn't so bad, was it?" She said with a grin. "Ya name is Ayden, right?"

Darting his stare from her face to her hands as she pulled fresh cloth bandages and bottles full of different colored liquid from the basket, he nodded his head. "Yes."

"Well, it's nice ta meet yah, even wit dees conditions." Dropping the supplies beside the boy, Abigail leaned forward towards his face, her hand extended. Both of the men tensed as she placed her soft hand on the teen's cheeks. A heat resonated from the youth's clammy skin, warming up her hand with alarming quickness. Dropping her hand from his face, she frowned. "Jus as I thought - ah fevah."

Ayden wasn't sure what to think - the woman was strange, her thick accent hard to follow. But her voice was soft, the genuine and honest intentions in her demeanor not going unnoticed by the teen. Despite the calleousness of his dire situation, he felt this woman trusting; at least more so than the others. Swallowing nervously, he stopped himself from grabbing her small wrists as she rolled the blanket back from his navel. The blankets were folded down far too low for his comfort, a good five to six inches from his navel, and any lower he'd be humiliated in his naked state. But sparing one glance at her, it seemed she didn't share such thoughts - her face thoughtful and determined, she didn't appear to even notice the intimate region she trodded on.

Considering the precision of her hands with the medical supplies, the adolescent guessed this wasn't her first time mending someone.

The woman seemed to read his thoughts. She grinned at him. "I ahm a married ooman. Nutten ta worry yourself."

Ayden broke the eye contact, a warming embarrassment on his cheeks joining his already feverish skin. "I do not need help... if you leave the supplies, I can take care of my wounds on my own."

"Wit one of ya arms bounded?" She gestured to the steel manacle clamped around his tanned wrist. "Dunt be stubborn. Now lie steel." A few seconds of silence surrounding them, Elías gingerly returned to his vacant seat, his hands on his beloved pistol.

Gently cutting away the old bandages, Abigail grimaced at the ghastly state of the boy's wounds. The edges of the sliced skin were ravaged from what she assumed was a rude awakening for the teen, his thrashing or man-handling ruining her work on the callous injury. A mixture of crimson blood and transluscent liquid dripped from the area, though she found small solace that there was no distinguishable scent. At least that.

"You said that you are married." She glanced up at the adolescent as she gently blotted the oozing horizontal slash, promptly ignoring the tense pain in his voice. "Which-which Assassin is your husband?"

She tossed the soiled cloth to the side, her hands already twisting off the top of a small bottle filled with amber hued liquid. "Achilles is mi husband." She diregarded the look of disdain that spread on his face, and shoved the bottle into his hand. "Drink dis whiskey. Yah gonna waan it."

"You-you're an Assassin too?" he asked, grabbing the bottle from her but not drinking it as instructed.

She laughed, the sound a high pitch. "Oh no, I dunt belieb in dees dings."

"In what things? In the Assassins?"

"In all of it," the woman replied, pulling a needle and thread from the basket. "Grown men refusin' ta listen ta each odda. All child's play. Dat's all dees war between de Templars and Assassins is."

His free hand grabbing one of the pieces of bandages laid out, Ayden quickly soaked it in the whiskey, emptying the contents onto the fabric. The woman watched in astonished interest as he slammed his eyes shut, preparing for the worse, and forced himself to press the saturated bandage against the wound. Speckles of lights dancing before his closed eyes, his body beginning to sweat in a sheen layer of perspiration, Ayden forced his shaking, hurt body to slow its respiration. "If you don't...don't agree with the Assassins, why did y-you marry one?"

Blinking as she eyed the peculiar action from the boy, the perfectly good whiskey wasted on his wound and causing him undue pain, Abigail took a deep breath. "Well, ya dunt get ta choose 'oo ya fall in love wit. Jus as yah dunt choose 'oo ya born to."

The wound stung incredibly, his consciousness wavering at the pains that plagued him, though Ayden didn't lessen the pressure. He released a small, nearly inaudible chuckle. "And yet, here I am."

"Wa ahr ya doin'?" She pressed, curiosity getting the better of her, as she eyed the wound covered with his hand. "Ya nah gettin' more alcohol."

"I don't want anymore," he replied tensely, slowly opening his eyes as the area around his wound finally numbed itself, the nerves exhausted from the ruthless treatment. "The-the Englishmen traded alcohol with my people... I do not know when but... we used it on our wounded."

She stared at him as though he grew a second head. "Ahn it wuked?"

"I don't know. I think so - the Elders kept doing it."

"Here. Let mah help." She placed her hand over his larger one, softly pushing it away. She wasn't sure what she expected him to do; given her close proximity, his hands so close to her, he couldn't easily snapped her neck. Considering the ruthless training she knew the each Assassin was forced to endure, their trials long and strenuous on the mind and body, she didn't doubt whether the Templars followed a similar regime - especially the son of their leader.

And yet, he gently let his hand fall, allowing her hand be the trusting force on the bandage to his wound.

Hearing him sigh heavily, she watched him lay his head back against the pillows, his blinks becoming slower. "Yah luk tired. Nah surprising - yah had ah bad hit to di head."

Ah, so that explained his dizziness and vertigo. "How long have I been unconscious?"

Abigail briefly considered the imperativeness of the question, whether Achilles would forbid the disclosure of such information. But it seemed trival enough. "Yah came two days ahgo, but you'b been coming in ahn out of consciousness."

Feeling the woman lift the bandage from his wound, the crisp air hitting the damp area immediately, Ayden nodded his head. He found the pillows behind him far more comfortable than they ought to have, his head sinking lower in their comforting bliss as he relaxed significantly. "Thank you... for doing this."

She smiled, blotting the wound dry with another piece of cloth bandage. "Dink nutten of it."

The edges of his vision were turning dark, either from his battered body or his paltry reserve of energy was finally depleting itself. He didn't even notice his eyes shut. "You are going through a lot...of trouble j-just for them to kill me eventually."

"Achilles ain't gonna kill yah," the Jamaican's voice floated into his garbled, hurting head. "He's ah good mon. Fair. If yah honest wit 'im, yah will live."

The sweet bliss of unconsciousness pulling at his weakened mind, Ayden allowed himself to be lulled into its sweet embrace. The words from the woman buzzed in his head, and as much as he wanted to naively believe them, he simply couldn't it. Danger lurked all around him in the fatal environment, caught in the crosshairs of his father's work - he should've listened to the older Kenway. And worst of all, he knew he couldn't abide by Abigail's unspoken request - to be honest with Achilles in exchange for his life and wellbeing. His father rarely spoke of his interactions with Assassins, even hesitating to touch upon their failed Creed and lacking ideals, likely waiting for him to be rightfully initiated before divulging the sensitive topic. And while that may have been fine in his father's twisted logic, it left Ayden sorely ill-equipped for expecting the covert Creed.

Allowing himself finally be dragged into the depths of proverbial darkness, the teen grudgingly accepted that until he escaped the hands of the Assassins, unconsciousness would be his only time of reprise.


End file.
